


Finding Frodo

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Attempted Murder, Birth, Birthday Party, Family Member Death, Friendship, Gen, Light Petting, Minor Character Death, The Shire, Village life, Weddings, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 99,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: In the book there is a gap of many years between Bilbo's departure from the Shire and Gandalf's return, with the results of his research on the Ring.  Tolkien gives us only the briefest of overviews of that time, so I have set my imagination to fill the gap. Frodo Baggins learns that there is more to growing up, than coming of age.
Comments: 57
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the characters, some of the events and all of the settings belong to JRR Tolkien. Many thanks to Mithrial for the 'cover' picture.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155221358@N03/49323946886/in/dateposted-public/)

In the field at the bottom of the hill someone struck up a fiddle. Within a couple of bars a tambour joined, followed by a tin whistle. It seemed that, even though both celebrants were now absent, the grandest birthday party the Shire had ever seen, was determined to go on.

Frodo closed the large, round door, knowing at once that he was too late. Bag End had always felt, “occupied” before, doubly so in the run up to the party. The absence of their dwarven guests was not unexpected but Frodo had hoped, against hope, that even after Bilbo’s spectacularly public disappearance, he would have second thoughts once he stepped back into his beloved Bag End.

The enticing aroma of Old Toby wafted toward him from the parlour and his heart leapt for joy, but one step into the room revealed only Gandalf. Frodo paused a moment to reflect upon that thought. It was not as though finding a wizard sitting in your parlour was a common occurrence in the Shire. Gandalf sat, staring fixedly at the fire, a steady curl of pipe smoke only indication that he was other than some statue of the ancient kings of men dropped, incongruously, into Bag End’s cosy parlour. Still, rather than stating, “He has gone”, Frodo could not help asking, “Has he gone?”

Gandalf blinked and his expression was kindly as he replied, “Yes. He has gone at last.”

“I wanted to see him off, but I couldn’t get away.” Frodo pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s caused quite a stir down there.” Bright blue eyes narrowed. “That flash was a surprise. I’ve never heard of Bilbo’s ring doing that before. It would have been little use to a burglar if it had.” 

The old wizard chuckled. “I decided it would be better for people to believe I had a hand in the disappearance. Magic rings should not be used for entertainment.” He pointed to a large envelope on the mantle-piece. “He’s left you his ring, by the way. It’s with all the legal papers.”

Frodo lifted down the thick envelope, but made no move to open it, instead tapping it against his palm. “I would have thought it more use to Bilbo, as he’s the one setting out on another adventure.” The image of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins potential reaction to Bilbo’s parting mathom, on the morrow, popped into his head. “Still, I suppose I could find a use of it.”

Gandalf shook his grey head, thoughtfully. “I would use it only sparingly, if you use it at all. One never quite knows how a magic ring will behave. Most magic comes at a cost.” He drew himself up. “And now I shall go to my bed. I don’t often get to sleep in a good feather bed and I intend to make the most of it.”

Angry voices drifted up from the Party Field and Frodo grimaced, dropping the envelope on the parlour table as he hurried to the door. “I wish I could go to mine, but I had better sort out that lot.”

“That lot” took several hours to “sort out”, and it was a wee small hour of the morning before Frodo returned to Bag End. Too weary to even remove his party clothes, he fell onto his bed, and instantly into an exhausted sleep. Toward dawn, Gandalf slipped into his room. For some time he simply studied the new master of Bag End, then he draped a blanket over the sleeping form before collecting hat and staff and stepping out into the grey pre-dawn light.

Some hours later Frodo was rudely yanked from his sleep by a determined hammering upon the front door, followed by the creek of its opening and Old Rory’s booming voice. “Frodo? Frodo Baggins! Are you not up and about yet? Being your own master does not mean that you can do just as you please. You have responsibilities.”

Frodo disentangled himself from a blanket as he heard Aunt Esmeralda’s gentle voice chiding, “Rory, dear. Bilbo has doubtless run the poor lad ragged for weeks with all the party preparations. Give him a little time.”

Her nephew stumbled from his bedroom and into the hallway, pasting on what he hoped was a bright smile. Rorymac, Saradoc, Esmeralda and Merriadoc Brandybuck stood in the hallway, surveying the heaps of mathoms. Aunt Esme noted her nephew’s appearance; his tangled hair and rumpled party clothes, and smiled kindly as she stepped forward to comb gentle fingers through Frodo’s disordered locks, and whisper, “How are you, sweetheart?”

At the remembered gentle touch Frodo’s smile became more genuine, if a little rueful. “I’ll live … if I can make it through today at least.” He noted that Esmeralda had donned her new scarf, a birthday present from Bilbo and Frodo, tying it fetchingly about her shoulders. It touched him that she would make a point of wearing it to say her goodbyes.

Saradoc and Rorymac were surveying the mathoms with some interest, although they would never be so impolite as to begin rummaging. Rory leaned upon his walking stick as he spoke again, his volume only slightly moderated, for he was going a little deaf. “We were on our way back to Buckland, when we decided to pop in and pay our respects to the new Mister Baggins of Bag End. Don’t suppose there’s a cup of tea going begging?”

Frodo was saved from replying by his aunt’s kindness once more. “Nonsense, Rory. I suspect the kitchen range was not even banked last night. Poor Frodo would have been too exhausted after settling all that hullabaloo in the field. I bet he hasn’t even had a cup of tea himself, and here you stand, with a stomach full of tea and no fewer than two breakfasts. Shame on you.” Rorymac Brandybuck was the Master of Buckland, but his daughter in law ensured that the huge warren of Brandy Hall ran smoothly, and that responsibility brought a power of its own. “Now that we have paid our respects we will be off,” she asserted. Rory subsided into a mutter that forced his nephew to hide a grin.

“Thank you for stopping by,” Frodo offered, with undisguised relief, for he truly did not remember banking the kitchen fire, and suspected it would be some time before there would be any hot water for tea or bathing. It was as his relatives turned to leave that Frodo suddenly remembered a large wooden crate. “Oh! Master Rorymac … Bilbo has left an extra present for you.” 

He pointed to the crate, with it’s carefully inscribed label of, “Old Rory Brandybuck, in return for much hospitality.” Rory’s wrinkled features rearranged themselves into a very broad grin as he perused the label on one of several bottles of ruby-red wine contained within. “Well done, Bilbo. Old Winyards. This was laid down by his father, Bungo. That hobbit always did have good taste in wine. Sara, lad, take this out to the cart and make sure it’s packed carefully.” He smacked thin lips. “We wouldn’t want any breakages.” 

Saradoc Brandybuck was well beyond the age where anyone else would consider him a lad, but he followed his father’s instruction with only a quick roll of the eyes toward his wife.

Merry had stood, unobtrusively beside his parents for some time, but now he spoke up. “There look to be a lot of packages here to hand out, and no doubt everyone will be descending upon Bag End soon, to see if Uncle Bilbo really has gone. Cousin Frodo will need some help.”

Frodo had seen no sign of Gandalf yet, but suspected that he would be of little use handing out mathoms, if he even considered it proper work for a wizard. At least if Frodo had someone to answer the door he may find time for a wash and some breakfast. Too much ale the previous evening had left him with a rather delicate head so the gaze he turned upon his aunt had her chuckling, and she tapped her husband’s shoulder. “I think that’s a very good idea, Merry. Sara, dear, give our son some money, so that he can pay Tom Carter to fetch him home in a few days.” 

Saradoc knew better than to argue, handing Merry several silver coins, and adding some coppers. “For expenses,” he stated with a wink.

So it was that an hour later Frodo was able to wash and change (even if it was with tepid water). He even managed to throw together some breakfast and a pot of tea, while Merry dealt with most of the casual callers and handed out the occasional mathom.

All worked well until the middle of the afternoon. Someone, and Frodo had his suspicions about who, let it be known that the new Mister Baggins was handing out mathoms to everyone who had attended the party, despite everyone already having received a present at the party itself. Within an hour of Ted Sandyman’s call, ostensibly to wish Frodo well, Bag End was under siege. The lane, from the garden gate, all the way down the Hill to number one Bagshot Row, was crammed with a jostling crowd of ponies, carts, wheelbarrows, handcarts and people. Some had been to the party, others had not, but joined the line anyway, resulting in occasional raised voices. Poor Merry was soon overwhelmed but, knowing that Frodo was nursing a headache, attempted to soldier on.

He was just leading Adelard Took to the umbrella that Bilbo had so carefully labelled, “For Adelard Took, for his very own, from Bilbo,” (Adelard had a habit of borrowing and not returning them) when the mathom was snatched from his hands. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins used it with great aplomb, to poke a startled Merry in the chest as she demanded, “Where is he?”

Merry dodged the next attack, which was now quite easy because everyone had stepped back to watch the fun. From the centre of an empty circle, he assayed a polite reply, although this was one of those rare occasions when he wished he had not been raised to respect his elders. “Who are you looking for, Mistress Lobelia?”

“Bilbo Baggins, of course. Don’t try to tell me that old fool isn’t hiding here somewhere.” She spun about, as though expecting Bilbo to materialise from the woodwork. 

Considering Bilbo’s history, Merry decided such an expectation was not entirely unreasonable. Nonetheless, he drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders as he recited once more, the mantra he had been repeating all day. “Mister Bilbo Baggins no longer lives in Hobbiton. Mister Frodo Baggins is now the owner and sole resident of Bag End.”

Lobelia’s husband, Otho, stepped forward, green eyes narrowed. “Sole resident, is he? But is he the owner? I want to speak to this so-called owner.”

Adelard Took perhaps had not Merry’s training, for he made to grab his umbrella and an undignified tug of war ensued between Lobelia and himself. The sounds of a tussle and raised voices drew Frodo, who had watched, largely unobserved, from the study doorway.

He was weary but his voice was firm as he requested, “Lobelia, Otho, please come this way.” Frodo hoped that nobody noticed the slight tremble in his hand as he ushered his relations from the hall.

With one final tug and a gleeful release, Lobelia relinquished her hold upon the umbrella, resulting in poor Adelard flying backward to lie in a heap among the crowd of laughing onlookers. With the quiet exhortation to Merry to, “Please clear the smial”, Frodo followed Otho into the study and closed the door firmly, upon the many prying eyes.

Once within, Frodo took up position at the other side of the desk and waived his relatives to chairs. “How may I help you, Uncle Otho?”

Lobelia arranged the many and varied flounces of her skirts as she perched, straight-backed, upon the edge of a chair. She was the first to speak. “It seems to me, Frodo Baggins, that you have already helped yourself, and if you are indeed handing out the contents of Bag End, we would expect you to at least offer us first refusal…at a family discount of course.”

Otho took the other seat, his tone quite smug. “Oh no, my dear. We need not purchase anything. As I read the law, Frodo here is the heir to Bilbo’s fortune and possessions, upon his death. I see no body here. If, as Bilbo himself stated, he has only left the Shire, his property should revert to his closest relative until his return, or upon the declaration of his death.”

Frodo swallowed, hiding his trembling hands beneath the desk. Bilbo had warned him to expect this but the warning made it no easier, and he hoped that Otho did not detect the quaver in his voice. “As the only surviving son of Bilbo’s father’s, second brother, that would usually be the case, yes,” Frodo declared, displaying his full grasp of the intricacies of the family line.

“Precisely!” Lobelia announced, with a smirk, even as she began to look about the study. Frodo suspected that she was calculating the worth, upon the open market, of all the fixtures; perhaps even planning new colours for the decor.

Frodo tried to smile through clenched teeth. “As Otho has pointed out, Bilbo is not dead, but he took the time to make arrangements for this situation.” He unfolded a thick legal document and spread it upon the desk, turning it for their perusal. Both leaned in, Otho perching a pair of glasses upon his nose. 

Frodo found himself fingering the small gold ring in his pocket as he pointed out, “As you can see, Bilbo has bequeathed all his possessions, including Bag End, to me, upon my coming of age…not upon his death.”

Lobelia’s face grew thunderous. She even went to the length of counting every witness signature, and scowled when she discovered the requisite seven, their red ink still fresh. On the other hand, Otho’s face was white as he straightened to exclaim, “This is an insult!”

The new owner of Bag End sighed, fear melting to annoyance; whether at Otho or Bilbo he was at present unsure. “Possibly. But it is not one perpetrated by me, and Bilbo is not here to confirm or deny his intentions. You will note that one of those signatures is that of the Mayor.” He stood. “Now, if there is nothing else, I really must help Merry clear the smial.” Knowing precisely what Bilbo had left for Lobelia, Frodo hesitated before adding, “I believe Bilbo has left you a gift, Lobelia. It is in the hall, if you will follow me.”

The trio stepped into chaos. It seemed Merry had been unable to put Frodo's instructions into action, and Frodo could not find it in his heart to be cross, for he had, perhaps, been a little unfair in placing the task on such young shoulders. Some of the recipients of Bilbo’s largess had begun to squabble over their mathoms, labels had been torn off in the resulting scuffles, and now it was no longer clear what had been left for whom. Frodo leapt atop Belladonna Took’s glory box and waved his arms, almost hitting a fine chandelier, which was fortunately not lit at the time. 

“Gentlehobbits!”

Frodo Baggins was known to be a good-natured chap so his shout had the element of surprise and brought instant stillness. He cleared his throat, lowering his voice in concession to his thundering headache. “My uncle has left the Shire and I am now the owner of Bag End. As his last act, Bilbo left mathoms ... for a select few. If you would all, please, retreat to the garden, Merriadoc and I will bring them to each of you in turn. Once that is done I really would appreciate some time alone. As you can imagine, I have been very busy since last night.”

There was a little grumbling, for it was not considered polite to give presents in public, but most hobbits are reasonable folk. It was clear from his pale features, that the young gentlehobbit was worn out, so they filed out into the garden, to gather in family clumps. The Sackville-Baggins remained resolutely in place in the hallway so Frodo decided to deal with them first.

Jumping down, Frodo located and handed over a small, flat, leather-bound box. Lobelia’s eyes lit up at once, no doubt imagining it some elven crafted, jewel-bedecked, demi-parure, brought back from Bilbo's travels. The miraculously still attached label read, “For Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, as a PRESENT.” 

Frodo was well aware of the circumstances that had prompted the gift. Upon returning from his last adventure Bilbo discovered the contents of his beautiful smial being sold off, and his mother’s best silver spoons actually being stolen by Lobelia. Frodo stepped back warily as his aunt lifted the lid, only to discover that very same set of spoons, carefully nested in green velvet. 

Purple was not a colour that suited Lobelia…particularly upon her face. For one moment Bilbo’s heir thought that she would fling the box back at him, instead of which, Otho grabbed it, tucking it firmly under his arm before wordlessly gripping Lobelia’s ample waist and whisking his wife from the premises. The poor lady’s finely pedicured feet barely touched the floor, such was her husband’s haste. 

Frodo gusted out a sigh of relief. “Alright Merry. Hand me all the detached labels. I think I remember, or can at least guess, which one went with each present.” As the youngster handed them over, a little sheepishly, Frodo clapped him on the back. “You’ve been doing well, cos. But I was wrong to leave it all to you, and Rorymac was quite right, it’s time I stepped up to my new responsibilities. Once this is done, you and I will sit down for a well-earned cup of tea and a slice of birthday cake.”

Merry’s grin returned. “Birthday cake?”

Frodo clapped him on the back, his good nature returning, despite the ever present headache. “Yes, Mistress Gamgee managed to rescue some last night and she left it on our…my kitchen table.” He glanced down at the first label. “Milo Burrows. Yes. This is a pen set. It’s in a small green box.”

Bell Gamgee, Sam’s mother, was indeed kind, and practical. When she had found the time to do it, Frodo could not guess, but when he had stepped into his pantry for some eggs that morning it was to discover several covered plates. Not only was there a large piece of birthday cake, but a couple of pieces of pie and several ham sandwiches. It was clear that Bell understood that Frodo would be run off his feet today. There was even a large basin of pea and ham soup, with a note in Sam’s hand that said, “For supper”. Consequently, that evening, with the addition of some cheese and one or two other items, Merry and Frodo sat down to a tasty and very respectable meal.

“Phew.” Merry added milk to his second cup of tea. “I hope we won’t have to go through all that when Grandpapa dies. Not that I expect that to happen any time soon,” he added quickly.

Frodo’s reply was a little peevish as he paused to circle fingers at his temples. The encounter with Otho and Lobelia had done nothing to ease his headache. “Unless Uncle Rory disappears in the middle of his birthday party I think you’ll be spared. Honestly, I did not for a moment believe Bilbo when he said he was going to do that. It was too mischievous of him. He really did create an awful mess. I…”

“Can you hear something?” The younger Merry suddenly lifted a hand for silence. 

“Now what?” his cousin replied, with somewhat less than his usual grace.

Merry was mature for his years, possibly a result of his being in training to take up the reins of the Master of Buckland one day, mature enough to ignore Frodo’s short temper. “It’s a sort of thumping sound. Can’t you hear it?”

“I’m sorry, Merry, but I can hardly hear anything above the thumping in my own head. I think a whole army of dwarves has taken up residence in here and is digging for the Arkenstone.”

Merry offered a lopsided smile. “Well, I can hear something. And I think, ‘digging’ is a good description. Come on. It’s coming from below us I think.”

Whilst the hill was big enough to allow all the main living accommodation upon one level, Bungo Baggins had arranged for the digging of a few cellars. Some held a strange miscellany of mathoms, others comestibles, and one housed his extensive wine collection. Bilbo’s added at least one keg each of cider and beer to that particular cellar. Now Frodo and Merry burst through the door, frying pan and broom in their respective hands. To one side they found three tween’s, rolling on the floor in a giggling heap, surrounded by pick axes and shovels, beside a sizeable hole in the cellar wall. It was clear that the delving was now somewhat desultory, their having apparently consumed a large quantity of beer or cider.

The giggling grew wilder when they took in Frodo and Merry’s makeshift weapons. Frodo glowered as he lowered his frying pan. “Brinley and Whit Boffin, just what do you think you are doing? And Rabbit Bolger, whatever it is, as the eldest I would expect you to know better.”

“Lookin’, lookin’ fer treeshire…tree…stuff,” Rab announced in a very studied way.

Despite his headache Frodo discovered some humour in the situation. “And I see you found my cider keg instead. I suppose, to some, that would be considered a treasure. Well, I hope you enjoyed it because, after Merry and I escort you from the premises, I shall expect to see you return on the morrow, hangover or not, to make good this wall. If you are not, I shall be making a visit to your parents.”

That stopped the giggling rather quickly. “Yes, Frodo.” Whit looked about him rather owlishly as he climbed to his feet. “But where’s Sancho?”

“It’s Mister Baggins to you from now on. Come on. You can leave. Take the pick-axe away with you but you’ll need the shovels tomorrow. Merry will show you out while I search for Sancho.”

As it happened, he did not have to search far. Sancho was in the large pantry upstairs. How Frodo and Merry had not heard him earlier, Frodo would never know. Perhaps Sancho had done most of the noisy work of removing the wooden panelling whilst the hall was full of arguing visitors. It seemed he had detected what he thought was a hollow wall, perhaps hiding a treasure room, and grew somewhat argumentative when Frodo calmly pointed out that the hollow space he was detecting was actually a linen cupboard, in the bedroom next door. He, too, was evicted with instructions to make good his destruction on the morrow.

By the time Frodo and Merry had checked every corner of every room in Bag End they were both exhausted, and had to make a fresh pot of tea. They had just sat down at the kitchen table when there was a soft knocking at the front door. Frodo groaned, dropping his head into his folded arms.

Merry made to get up. “Shall I get it?”

“Leave it. Maybe Lobelia will give up and go away.” Frodo was convinced it was she. Earlier, despite being swept away by her husband once, Frodo had stepped into the parlour to discover Lobelia, about to drop a silver nut dish into the folds of a furled umbrella. When he confiscated said umbrella, which he recognised as having come from the hall stand, Frodo discovered it to be stuffed with other small, but not inconsequential, items. Frodo and Merry ejected Lobelia, rather firmly, minus both nicknack's and umbrella. Otho, waving a fist from the garden gate, shouting something about waiting sixty years and spoons, was the last thing Frodo saw as he slammed the door. 

Now the knocking grew louder and Frodo straightened, taking a deliberate swallow of his tea, while Merry shuffled uncomfortably. Then there was a loud voice. “If you don’t let me in, Frodo, I shall blow your door right through your smial and out through the hill!”

“Gandalf!” Frodo’s face lit up for the first time in two days. “Stay here and finish your tea, Merry. In fact, find the big mug and pour some for our guest.” Frodo ran off down the hall to admit the wizard. “You didn’t need to knock. I thought you had deserted me when you weren’t in your room this morning.” He led Gandalf into the parlour, where Bilbo always kept a large chair available for his ‘outsider’ visitors.

Gandalf swept off his hat, leaned his gnarled staff against the chimney breast, and made himself comfortable. “I just popped out to check on a few things. I saw Lobelia and Otho earlier, driving a pony and trap toward Bywater at quite a clip. Lobelia bore an expression that would have curdled new milk.”

Merry arrived at that moment, handing over mugs of tea to both Frodo and Gandalf. The wizard offered him a broad smile. “Thank you, Merriadoc.” At a smile and a nod from Frodo, Merry retreated and Frodo settled opposite. “Lobelia came close to curdling me earlier. Honestly, for a moment I longed to slip on Bilbo’s ring and disappear too.”

“Don’t do that! Do be careful of that ring, Frodo. In fact, it would be best if you did not use it at all. I take it Bilbo has told you how he acquired it?”

“He did. Not that silly tale about it being a present. He told me how he found it and tricked that nasty Gollum creature, and how he used it afterwards.”

Gandalf nodded approval. “Good. I was always uneasy about the birthday present story. It is not like Bilbo to lie. He has been known to evade the truth, but I have never known him to lie before. I think there’s more to that ring than the ability to make its wearer invisible. If you take my advice, I shall tell you to avoid using it, at least in any way as to draw undue attention.”

Frodo grimaced. “You mean, as Bilbo did last evening?”

The ancient wizard shook his head. “I warned Bilbo not to do that. It is the reason I arranged that little distraction. I thought it better folk assumed the wild wizard had spirited him away.”

“You are being very mysterious, Gandalf. What are you afraid of?”

Frodo had half expected him to protest that nothing was capable of engendering fear in Gandalf the Grey. Instead, the old man replied, “I am not certain, so I will say no more. I may be able to tell you upon my return. I am going off at once, so this is goodbye for the present.” He drained the last of his tea and arose, collecting hat and staff.

“At once!” Frodo cried, leaping out of his chair. “I thought you would be staying for at least a week.” He dropped his head, meekly. “I was looking forward to your help.”

“You’ve a good head on your shoulders Mr Baggins. Your uncle Bilbo may have his faults, but he taught you well enough. You will cope. I shall return upon occasion, although it would be best I did not do so openly. Someone, and I was unable to establish who, has been spreading the rumour that you and I have conspired to spirit Bilbo away, so that you can get hold of his wealth.”

“I fancy I could narrow those someone’s down to two or three,” Frodo replied darkly. “I am beginning to wish I had gone with Bilbo after all. I wonder if I shall ever see him again.”

Gandalf laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “And I wonder a great many things. Take care of yourself, Frodo. Look out for me, especially at unexpected times. Goodbye.”

Frodo saw him to the door. Gandalf's horse waited patiently at the gate and Frodo stood, watching his cart roll up the lane and disappear over the brow of the hill, into the fading dusk.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“Mornin’ Mr Baggins. I was thinkin’ ye’d still be at sixes-and-sevens, so I’ve brought a nice pot of rabbit stew for later and some home baked bread.” Bell Gamgee looked up, from where she was raking out the ashes of the kitchen range, and grinned. “I know how much ye like my bread.”

Frodo hurriedly fastened the belt of his dressing gown. “Thankyou, Mistress Gamgee. But please don’t call me Mister Baggins. We’ve known each other for years and it just doesn’t feel right.”

Bell leaned back on her heels. “Well, now. That is the proper way, now that ye’ve come of age and Mr Bilbo has left. Although ye can call me Bell, if ye've a mind.”

Frodo grimaced. “Just, Bell, doesn’t seem polite. You’ve been a second mother to me and a good friend of late.”

There was a silence as both parties considered their new relationship. Bell was first to break the uncomfortable silence. “How about this…I could call ye Mister Frodo and ye could call me Mistress Bell? Would that work?”

A grin lit Frodo’s face. “That sounds perfect, Mistress Bell. And, you should not be clearing my grate.” He made to relieve her of the hand shovel but she held it away from him, so he tried again. “You have enough work of your own and I can do this. I just need to dig out my slug-a-bed cousin, Merry, and we can tackle it between us.”

“’Taint nothin, to me to do this for a few days at least. As yer uncle told it, Mister Bilbo used to do this job, and make first breakfast while ye got yer wash. I’m thinkin’ yer goin’ to have to come up with a new routine,” she smiled ruefully, “Or learn to bank the fire better at night. Twas naught but ashes when I stepped in.”

Frodo sighed. “Banking the kitchen fire was always Bilbo’s last bedtime job, while I tended the hearths in the other rooms.”

“I hope ye won’t think it too forward, but can I offer somethin’ as I hope will help?”

“I’m open to any and all suggestions at this moment. Once Merry heads home; and Tom Carter is coming to collect him this morning, I shall have to learn to cope on my own. To be perfectly honest, with a smial this size, the prospect is quite daunting.”

“Me and Marigold can do the big cleanin’ jobs, as we always did for Mr Bilbo, if ye want to go on that way. But I was thinkin’ of our Sam. He’s been brought up to look after a smial.” Bell gave a sniff. “All my lads know that runnin’ a smial takes teamwork. Sam can build a fire, mend a shirt and cook a chicken, as well as cleanin’ windows and sweepin’ floors. How about ye think on what ye need help with, and he’ll do for ye?”

“Can Mister Gamgee spare him? I know that your husband is beginning to feel his age when it comes to gardening.” When Bell looked a little too thoughtful he added, with some haste, “Of course, I would pay Sam for any work he does indoors, as well as for his work in the garden.”

“I’m guessin’ he didn’t tell ye, but Mr Bilbo and my Ham talked about this afore yer uncle left. I hope this don’t sound disrespectful, but Ham and Sam never did take to workin’ fer yer Uncle Otho. If yer willin’ to pay what they get fer working the garden of those Sackville-Baggins’, Sam would make enough money for us, and have the time to get yer jobs done instead.”

“I suspect you would actually be better off. I happen to know that Otho and Lobelia tend to be a bit stingy when it comes to paying for work.” Frodo did not need to consider for very long at all. He liked Sam. He almost felt like a brother, although Sam would not dare to claim the same, and if Frodo was to have anyone else pottering about in his home, he would rather it be someone from the Gamgee family. “Thank you, Mistress Bell. I shall sit down with pen and paper tonight and consider what needs doing. Then we will all get together and hammer things out. Would tomorrow evening suit?”

Bell smiled widely as she climbed to her feet, with a grunt. “That would suit nicely, Mister Frodo. I’ll send Sam over to clear ashes and mend fires tomorrow.” She bent to pick up the ash bucket, but Frodo took it from her work-worn hands. 

“I’ll see to this, or rather, Merry will see to it once I’ve dug him out of his bed.” On an impulse, he leaned in to peck Bell’s cheek. “I was so worried that I would not be able to live up to being the Master of Bag End.”

Bell coloured a little, then wiped her hands upon her apron. “I don’t know why. Me and Mr Bilbo know ye can do it.” She made for the kitchen door. “Although mayhap there’s some things of being Mr Baggins tis not so wise to live up to.”

Frodo was still studying the closed kitchen door when a yawning Merry stumbled in a few minutes later.

The first day of October dawned clear and fresh, and found Mister Frodo Baggins in Hobbiton's market place.

“Hello, Mister Boffin. How are Brinley and Whit doing?” Frodo began examining the fish on Mr Grubb’s stall, hoping to find a nice trout for his supper.

“I reckon he’s just about got rid of all the aches and pains of the diggin’ and rebuildin’. I’m right sorry they caused ye so much trouble, Mister Baggins. I don’t know what got into ‘em.”

Frodo chuckled. “About five halves of cider, by the look of them. I almost felt guilty, making them work with hang-overs the next day.”

“Ye’ve got nought to feel guilty over. I would have made ‘em work if ye'd not. Tweens need to learn that actions have con…consquer…”

“Consequences?”

“Aye. Them. I hope as how they did a good job of the repairs and that ye'll let me pay ye for the ale they drunk.”

“They did a very acceptable job. Thankyou. And don't worry about the ale.”

“Well, that's kind, and still I hope ye'll let me stand ye to a half next time we meet in the Ivy Bush.” Kenton Boffin turned away, then paused to add, “Bye the bye, I think ye'd be wise to visit the Ivy soon. There’s things ye may want to hear.”

Before Frodo could ask him for further explanation, Kenton was swallowed by the market crowds.

A few days later, spurred by Kenton’s strange comment, Frodo decided it was time to begin socialising again. Beyond the need to buy food, he had not ventured outside Bag End since the party, unwilling to field questions about Bilbo’s disappearance. He was fed-up of the entire topic, and wished people would move on, indeed, more than once after Merry returned to Buckland, he had almost packed a bag and set off to chase his uncle into the wilds.

Although Bilbo had been at pains to ensure that his heir knew how to manage smial and finances, Frodo quickly discovered that study and application, were two fish of very different spots. He had forgotten all about rents the first week, until Daddy Twofoot knocked upon his kitchen door to hand over his pennies. “Does, I mean, did Bilbo usually give you a receipt for your payments?” he asked, a little flustered, as he accepted the money.

Mr Twofoot scratched his head. “Well, he never did. Do ye want to?”

“Not unless you want one,” Frodo replied. Daddy Twofoot had always just been a kindly neighbour, and it felt more than a little odd to be in a business relationship with him. 

For some moments the two simply stood either side of the back door threshold. Finally Daddy Twofoot gave a toothless grin. “I couldn’t read it if ye gave one, young sir. ‘Twould be a waste of paper. No. I reckon I trust ye not to throw me out.”

Frodo swallowed, the import of the fact that he had such power within his hands, suddenly striking home. “Thank you.” Still feeling a little flustered, but remembering that there was more to being a landlord than collecting rents, Frodo asked, “Are you comfortable at Number Two? Do you need any repairs doing?”

Once more, Daddy Twofoot scratched his head. “I’m comfy enough. If ye’ve a mind to do anythin’ I suppose the front door could do with a lick of paint. Mr Bilbo said as how he was goin’ to get it done next summer.”

“Oh. Thank you for letting me know. I shall ask Ted Bracegirdle whether Bilbo mentioned it to him.” Ted had been taking care of the maintenance on Bagshot Row and Bag End for as long as Frodo had lived in Hobbiton; probably longer.

Daddy Twofoot touched his brow in salutation. “Thank ye, kindly, Mister Baggins.” And with those words he had trotted away, down the hill.

Frodo had still felt embarrassed, knocking at doors to collect rent from Hamfast Gamgee and Arty Sedgebury, and would have forgotten all about the carpenter’s workshop in the yard, had not Tom Buckleby espied him passing and run up to offer his coin. Being the manager of his own money, as well as his own home, would definitely take some getting used to.

Now Frodo stepped up to the polished bar of the Ivy Bush, aware that the hum of conversation had suddenly dropped. He frowned at the bartender in some confusion. Frodo had been joining his uncle and various friends for a half in this establishment for several years, and this was the first time that he felt uncomfortable.

“Hello, Mister Baggins. What can I get you this evenin’?” Borden Brewer was his usual smiling self and Frodo began to relax.

“A half of cider, if you please.”

“I’ll get that, Borden. I owe our young Mr Baggins a half.” Kenton Boffin dropped a coin into Borden's meaty fist and turned to smile at Frodo. A nod of Kenton's head directed Frodo’s gaze to a far corner, where the lad was surprised to see Ted and Orton Sandyman, with a small group of sour-faced hobbits. “They’ve been hangin’ around here every evenin’ for a week now.”

Frodo sighed. “I wonder why. It can’t be the ale. I’ve heard Ted say he prefers the beer in the Green Dragon.” Behind him, Borden snorted as he filled a mug.

Kenton nodded. “Tis a tidy walk home of an evenin’ from here to Bywater as well, especially when yer trippin’ over yer feet…if ye take my meanin’. There’s not a good word spoken about anyone by those at that table neither, especially of the Baggins family.” 

Frodo’s drink arrived and he raised it to Kenton in salute. “Cheers, and thank you for letting me know. I don’t know what the Sandyman’s have against the Baggins family. As far as I know, we’ve never done anything to offend. Even Bilbo only ever returned tit for tat with them.”

Kenton turned him away from the bar and toward a table, where Hamfast and Sam Gamgee sat, with Tom Buckleby and Bartimus Brockbank. “Come join us, lad. I think we can answer ye that riddle at least.”

They made space for the two and once greetings were exchanged Kenton leaned in. “Mr Frodo was askin’ what the Sandyman’s have got against the Baggins'.” Heads nodded and all leaned in to listen as Kenton began. “See, nowadays, there’s quite a few folk as can read. Some better than others, I’ll grant ye.” 

Hamfast chuckled. “I aint never learned but my Sam’s right clever at it, thanks to Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo.”

“Well,” continued Kenton, “Back when old Bungo Baggins first dug Bag End, there was hardly a soul in Hobbiton, nor Bywater, neither, who could read a word. Bein’ the biggest business round about, the Sandyman’s was one of the few families who could. Everyone used to take their letters to Erling Sandyman for the readin’ and writin’.”

Hamfast gave a sage nod. “Aye. I remember my Da sayin’ the same. Erling used to charge a copper penny for each letter he read or wrote for someone. Nobody thought anythin’ of payin’, and Erling made a good livin’ off it.”

“He did that and just as well, for he weren’t too good at the millin’ side of his business. Anyhow, seems as soon as Bungo and his lady, Belladonna, moved in, they began to help folk with their letters instead, and they did it for free,” Kenton announced. “Ye can guess that Erling weren’t too pleased about that because, not only did he make a pretty penny from it, but he also got to know everythin’ about everyone's doin's. And, if ye take my meanin’, he weren’t above usin’ what he knew to make mischief.”

Frodo’s shock at such a betrayal must have shown on his face for Hamfast nodded. “Aye, Mr Frodo. Not everyone is as much a gentlehobbit as you and Mr Bilbo. And I ain’t talking no “accident of birth”, as Mr Bilbo used to call it.”

Frodo glanced toward the corner, to find Orton Sandyman glaring at him, and dropped his gaze to his cider. “But that was over a hundred years ago,” he pointed out.

“That’s as may be, but some folk seem to like holding a grudge, blessed if I know why,” Kenton declared with a shake of his grey head. “Seems like a proper waste of time if ye ask me.”

“Well, I don’t see that there’s much I can do about something that happened a hundred years ago.”

“That’s just it, Mr Frodo. Ye can’t, but we thought ye should know it weren’t somethin’ ye nor Mr Bilbo did wrong. I only hope it gives ye some comfort,” Kenton offered with an apologetic smile.

“I helps a little. At least I can stop racking my brains to find something to apologise for. Bilbo never seemed to let it bother him, but I’ve spent years worrying what I may have done to offend.” Frodo took a deep swallow from his mug. “It’s too bad of Bilbo not to have told me this before.”

Hamfast chuckled. “I gave up trying to guess the workin’s of Mr Bilbo’s mind long since. In truth, I thought he may have told you, but Kenton said as how we should make sure.” He raised his mug in salute to his friend. “Looks like he was right. You drink up there, Mr Frodo, and I’ll send Sam to get us another round.”

Frodo drained his mug, his good humour returned. “No, Mister Gamgee. I owe you all a drink for enlightening me. But if he doesn’t mind, Sam can give me a hand to carry the pots.” 

“I will that, Mr Frodo.” Sam leapt to his feet and Frodo followed, spinning about without really paying attention, in his haste. It was to be his undoing, for he ran straight into Ted’s son.

“Oiy! Watch where your goin’ Master Baggins.”

“I am sorry, Orton. If I spilled your drink I’ll buy you another.” The room grew silent as all paused to see how this would play out.

Orton sneered. “Aye. You’ve got plenty of coin to do that now, haven’t you? Will you get to keep it when they find that poor uncle of yours floating, face down, in the river, though?”

Frodo’s mind was having difficulty staying abreast of this conversation. “I beg your pardon?”

Orton’s sneer deepened and he turned to take in the entire room as he replied, “Everyone knows you waited until Bilbo was walkin’ back from his party, drunk. Then you pushed him off the bridge, into the Water. They ain’t found the body yet, but they will, you mark my words.”

“What?” was the only word Frodo could manage.

“Don’t think we aint noticed that you haven’t gone into mournin’,” Ted called from his dark corner. “I reckon that body will turn up in my mill wheel one mornin'.”

“Don’t you pay him no mind,” Tom Buckleby advised Frodo. “Ted’s been in here, pie-eyed, every night this week.”

“I heard that, Tom Buckleby. We all know you rent your workshop from the Baggins’, so you daren’t say nothin’ against him.” Ted dragged himself upright and Frodo suspected that it was only the corner angle of the wall behind, that was preventing him from sliding sideways.

Tom Buckleby dropped his head, only murmuring into his mug. “Better than bein’ beholden to you, Ted.”

Orton’s sneer turned into a scowl as he jutted his chin at Frodo. “You could leastwise show some respect and wear mournin’, Master Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo’s eyes flashed and Hamfast reached out to grab his wrist. Frodo remained still however. “It’s Mister, if you don’t mind. I have come of age, after all. You can’t have forgotten, for I’m sure I saw you at the party, even though you were not invited. As for mourning…Bilbo is not dead, he has only gone away. So, why would I mourn him?”

“So you say,” Ted shouted from the safety of his corner.

“Right. That’s enough.” Borden Brewer and his burly pot-boy, Whitly Grubb, strode out from behind the bar. They each took one of Ted Sandyman’s arms and frog marched him out of the inn, a loudly protesting Orton scurrying after. 

Borden’s “And I don’t want to see neither of you in my inn again,” was almost lost in a loud cheer from most of the other patrons. Having lost their ring leader, Ted's companions hurried to finish their drinks and slink quietly away, leaving Frodo humbled by the realisation that his neighbours would take his part so readily.

-0-

“Afternoon, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo spun about, quill in hand, and swore roundly when a large blob of ink splattered on the rug. “Sam! I didn’t hear you come in.”

Sam grinned. “I’m guessin’ that. I knocked at the back door and called out but you didn’t answer, so I thought maybe you was in here. You’re just like Mister Bilbo was when he got to writin’.”

Grabbing a piece of blotting paper, Frodo dropped to his knees to soak up the worst of the ink from the rug. Sam shook his head for it was a hopeless task, and the old circular rug showed evidence of many years of such failed efforts. Frodo grimaced. “I was answering the latest missive from Aunt Dora. Bilbo’s departure doesn’t appear to have dimmed her need to advise. She has just switched to addressing me directly.” Giving up on the ink blot, he climbed to his feet. “Have you come to collect my laundry?”

“Yes sir. The copper’s filled and Ma said, do you need any curtains doin’?” He trailed Frodo down the hall to his bedroom. That was another thing that had changed in recent weeks. Frodo had finally moved into what had been Bilbo’s bedroom, aside from the room kept for Gandalf, the biggest of the bedrooms, with a nice view of the flower garden. 

Sam held out his arms and Frodo began to pile them with sheets, towels and clothing. “I don’t think so. I think we can leave them until spring. I don’t smoke as much as Bilbo, so they’re not too bad, and I know it’s difficult to dry large items like that in winter.”

“I think Ma was hopin’ you’d say that. By the way, I was wonderin’ if you’d had the chimneys swept this year. Only, there was a bit of a haze of smoke in the kitchen when I passed through just now.”

Frodo's eyes widened and Sam had to step back smartly to avoid being mown down. Sam ran after his master, leaving a trail of towels and small clothes between study and kitchen, in his efforts to keep up. The haze in the kitchen had thickened, and Frodo paused only long enough to grab a couple of thick cloths from the rope strung across the mantelpiece, before flinging open the oven door. Smoke billowed more thickly now, as Frodo reached in to grab a tray and drop it heavily upon the kitchen table.

Setting the remains of his laundry on a chair, Sam ran to fling open the window, and Frodo waved a tea-towel, in vain attempt to waft away some of the smoke. Sam leaned in to examine what looked like a dozen lumps of black cinder, while Frodo sucked a thumb that he had burned in his haste. Under the circumstances, Sam was willing to forgive Frodo’s explosive, “Bugger!”

“What were they?”

Frodo removed his thumb, pausing to examine it and then the culinary disaster, before replying somewhat ruefully, “Fruit scones. The post arrived just as I popped them into the oven, and I always like to reply to Aunt Dora as quickly as possible. If I don’t, she has a tendency to assume the worst and ride over.”

Sam grabbed another towel to join Frodo's, so far ineffectual, efforts to clear the smoke. “Your aunt’s a bit old for ridin’ a pony, ain’t she?”

Using fingertips, Frodo began to drop the cinders into a waste bucket. The Gamgee’s kept a sow and everyone on the hill donated their food scraps to the feeding of Dumpy and her piglets. In return, when they went for slaughter, the Gamgees gave everyone a share of the meat. “She is. It took both Bilbo and me to help her down last time she called. That was Bilbo’s fault. He had written his reply but forgotten to post it. You know how distracted he was that last year.” Frodo paused a moment, suddenly realising that the pain of talking about his uncle no longer sliced as deeply as it had only a couple of months before.

Having wafted out as much smoke as he could, Sam closed the window against the November chill and set to, picking up the trail of laundry. “He was a mite distant. Do you ever wonder where he is now?”

Frodo chuckled as he set the bucket by the back door, next to the foot washing tray. “If I know Bilbo he will be sick of tramping through woods by now and will have found himself a nice inn, with soft beds and good food. I suspect he got no further than Bree. I hear they have a very good inn…the Dancing Horse or something.”

Having collected all the smalls, Sam eyed the empty tray. “Was you goin’ to have those scones for your tea? Only the baker in the village may have some left. I can run down and fetch some for you.”

“No, Sam. As punishment for my carelessness I shall have toast and jam for my tea. I really must pay more attention. I could try to blame Aunt Dora but the fault is entirely mine. It’s not as though I cannot make a passable scone. Goodness knows, Bilbo spent enough time supervising me in their correct making.” He dropped into a nearby chair. “I suppose I am still not used to being on my own. Bilbo and I tended to back each other up, and what one forgot the other remembered.”

“You still miss him.” It was not a question.

“Dreadfully. Did your Pa tell you that I forgot to collect the rents again last week? He collected them all for me and dropped them off with this week’s.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Frodo. You’ll get the hang of it, and Ma and Marigold will do your bakin’ if it’s a bother to you. I could do it if you like. You pay me far too much for the few jobs I do.”

Frodo grinned. “Few jobs! Sam, you make up the fires, heat the water for my baths, tidy all the rooms each day, dust, sweep floors and probably half a dozen other jobs that I would not even notice unless you stopped doing them. You more than earn every penny. You even stand there and offer a sympathetic ear when I get maudlin.” He straightened, blue eyes taking on a determined gleam, “Just as I am now. No, Sam. I shall not have toast for tea. I shall make another batch of scones and I will sit in here while they bake.”

Sam grinned. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Ma needs to put the whites to soak overnight, so she can wash tomorrow.”

Frodo stood to hold the door open for him. “Thank you. And thank your mother for me. I don’t know what I would do without the entire Gamgee family.”


	3. Chapter 3

To Frodo, it seemed that the remainder of the year passed far too quickly. Before he knew what he was about, Yule was knocking at the door, bringing Bell Gamgee with it. A week before the event he opened Bag End's front door, to a gust of wind-driven rain and a bundled up Bell. “Come in Mistress Bell. Whatever brings you out in this weather? Let me take your cloak.” 

Bell allowed him to relieve her of it willingly, revealing a large covered bowl in her arms. “I’ve been makin’ soup and thought ye’d like some. Tis only root vegetables but it warms the belly, specially with a few dumplin’s.” She rummaged in her capacious apron pocket to produce a small package, which she offered with the word, “Suet”.

Frodo accepted both willingly. “If it’s your soup it will be wonderful. Please come through to the kitchen. I was just about to make myself a cup of tea and I believe I have a couple of sausage rolls left.

“Thank ye, kindly, Mister Frodo. I’ll say thank ye to the tea but not the roll. My tummy has been a bit off, lately. I’ve left Marigold ironing yer shirts by-the-by. She’ll be fetchin’ ‘em after supper.”

“It’s good of you to do those jobs for me. I’m afraid my ironing skills stop at the odd collar and cuff.” Frodo took down a cloth from the mantle and carried the kettle to the sink. There he added hot water to the teapot, swilled it once and brought both to the table. Bell added three spoonfuls of tea to the pot, stirring while Frodo had added the hot water.

The kitchen was warm, so Bell unwrapped her shawl before sitting down at the table. Frodo frowned, for it seemed to him that Bell Gamgee had lost a little weight. The family was surely not struggling for money. Frodo had more than matched Bilbo’s hourly rate of pay for Sam and, even with Hamfast cutting back on his gardening work, the small family of four should manage well enough. “Has your stomach been bothering you a lot?” he asked as he placed mugs and a jug of milk before Bell.

Bell shrugged, adding milk to both mugs. “It comes and goes. Tis always worse after fried food so I don’t eat that. Sometimes it just hurts for no reason. Tis probably age.”

Frodo poured tea into the mugs and pushed the honey toward his guest. “Have you seen the doctor?”

“Tis nothin’. It’ll pass. Such things always do.”

Settling in a chair opposite, Frodo laid a hand upon Bell’s work-scarred one. “You know that if you can’t afford the doctor I’ll pay, don’t you? You’re like family to me.”

Bell withdrew her hand, waving away his offer. “Don’t ye go worritin’ now. Tis just age, is all.” She gave a deprecating laugh. “I’m no spring chicken ye know! Anyhow, there’s a reason I’ve called.”

Frodo let the matter lie. “And what is so important to bring you out on a filthy afternoon like this? Not that I’m unhappy about the soup, but I suspect you know that I won’t starve without it.”

“Well, ‘twill be Yule in two weeks. What have ye planned? Will ye be visitin’ family in Buckland or Tuckborough? Only, if yer plannin’ to be away, me and Ham will have to set off the Yule light.”

Frodo coloured. “Goodness. I had not even considered that. I am sorry. You would need to make plans of course. How selfish of me not to tell you mine.” 

“No need to worrit, Mr Frodo. Tis yer first time without yer uncle and tis bound to feel a mite strange. I didn’t mean to make ye feel bad.”

“Thank you. I have no plans, if I’m honest. I was going to join everyone in the field for the celebrations. I’ll be here to start the light at least, so you don’t have to worry about that and I shall cook myself a dinner here.”

“Will ye be havin’ guests?” Bell asked, evidencing some concern. 

“No.” Suddenly, saying it out loud brought home to him how quiet his Yule meal would be. He had never been alone at the Yule table. Even on those years when Bilbo and he celebrated alone, there had always been an easy companionship between them that did not need others. He took a deep draught of his tea as his throat threatened to constrict.

Bell’s eyes narrowed. “I thought so. That settles it, then. Ye’ll be joinin’ me and mine fer the Yule dinner. I’ve already spoken with Hamfast. Daisy and Bartimus will be comin’ so one more is easily served.”

Frodo’s mouth dropped open. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Bell laughed, rocking back in her chair. “Bless ye, Mister Frodo. Ye’ve said it yerself, many a time. We’re as good as family, so there’ll be no talk of imposing. In truth, we’ll be put out if ye say no. I, for one, could not settle to eat, thinkin’ of ye up here, all alone at the turnin’ of the year.”

Now Frodo grinned. “I certainly wouldn’t want to offend the entire Gamgee clan.”

“Indeed not, young sir. Not unless ye want to find yer next set of laundered smalls a mite chafin’.” Bell winked. “My Marigold is a dab hand with the starch. I reckon she takes after her big sister.”

Soon it was the eve of Yule, and for the first time in his life, Frodo Baggins knelt before the Yule log alone. Before him, on the cold hearth, were all the things he should need. There was flint and steel, a large, fat, beeswax candle, a couple of sprigs of wizened holly, and the bag containing some of the ashes and charred wood of last year’s log.

He picked up the kindling bag, but could not seem to bring himself to loosen the ties. In the grate, the glossy leaves and bright red berries of the dressing on the Yule log were almost indistinguishable in the fading light of dusk. He smiled. At least the bag had been easy to find this year. Frodo had done some tidying since Bilbo left and now it was possible to traverse the hallways without bumping into a tottering pile of books, or dislodging a sheaf of papers. Of course, most of those books and papers now formed teetering heaps in one of the spare bedrooms instead, but it was a start. The new Master of Bag End was discovering that he did not have his uncle’s love of disorder. He had uncovered the velvet bag of ashes stuffed behind some books in the parlour.

Frodo looked down at that bag again, his fingers still hesitating upon the drawstring. For twelve years he had knelt thus, with Bilbo at his side, and kindling the Yule flame alone seemed somehow wrong. Bag End was the highest smial in Hobbiton, and he knew the entire village waited to see the Yule light appear in the parlour window, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It had always been Bilbo’s task, as Master.

A quiet voice asked, “Mr Frodo?” 

He looked up to see Bell Gamgee framed in the darkened parlour doorway. “Hello Mistress Bell.” Frodo looked down at the bag in his hands and had to swallow a lump before speaking. He had thought himself beyond such grief. “Bilbo always used to do this.”

“Oh, lad.” Suddenly Bell’s skirts pooled at his side, as she knelt upon the rug, and Frodo found himself enveloped in a motherly hug. “I wondered if that were the problem. I thought to send our Sam up the hill earlier, then forgot in all the fuss.” She drew back, cupping his pale face in her hands, then bent to kiss his brow. “Of course ye miss him. He’s not dead, but there must be times when it feels he’s as good as.” She used her thumb to tenderly brush a stealthy tear from his cheeks. 

“But I’m supposed to be an adult. I should be able to cope on my own. Other people my age have married and had babies by now. And here I cannot even light the Yule log.” He frowned at the offending object. 

The lady smiled, softly. “There’s more to being grown up than countin’ birthdays. Ye’re still a youngster and there’s no law as says ye’ve got to grow up all at once.” Now she fished in the pocket of her ever-present apron, and dabbed at his eyes with a clean hanky. “As I see it, tis the love that comes slow that goes deepest. Ye’ve lots of time to find the right lass for ye. Anyhow, until ye find out who ye are, ye can’t share yerself with another. Ye’d hardly time to be a son when ye were somebody’s nephew, whether it be yer Uncle Saradoc or yer Uncle Bilbo. Now tis time to find out who Frodo Baggins is. Tis the beginnin’ of a new year and I can’t think of a better time to start, can ye?”

Frodo drew a deep breath and essayed a watery smile. “You’re right. Why are you always right about these things?”

Bell chuckled. “I’m not. Like most older folk, I’ve learned to hide it well when I’m not sure. Ye’ll get the lay of it with time.” She nudged his shoulder. “And I’ve raised enough of my own brood to have seen the story oft enough. Now let's get this fire lit, or Hobbiton is goin’ to be stuck in the past and that won’t do. Everythin’ needs to move forward.”

Frodo opened the little drawstring bag, scattering the ashes among the kindling beneath the log. “Will you stay to help?”

“Aye, lad. You lead this time, and I’ll follow.” Bell handed him the flint and steel.

Bending to the kindling, Frodo struck flint on steel and, as soon as a spark caught, blew gently to coax it into life. Pale wood shavings caught first, their edges turning first orange and then black as the tiny flames burned inward. Next came the small sticks, cracking and spitting beneath the holly bedecked log. Steam began to rise in a quiet whistle, as the last moisture was driven from the rough bark of the oak. When he was certain that the log was beginning to burn Frodo leaned back on his heels. 

Bell handed him a sprig of dry holly, it’s glossy leaves curled and brown, and took one for herself. “Time to say goodbye to the old year, lad.”

Frodo’s heart flopped queasily, for those were the precise words that Bilbo always used. For several moments both stared into the flames, then Frodo drew another deep breath and tossed his sprig into the growing flames. Bell followed suit, lifting the candle between them, and smiling reassuringly as she said, “Time to say hello to the new year, Mister Baggins.”

Frodo took a spill from the pot on the hearth and kindled it from the Yule flame. As he touched flame to wick he and Bell Gamgee recited the Yule blessing together. “May we have hearth to comfort, fire to cook and candle to guide us home.” Bell pushed to her feet to set the glowing light in a lantern upon the windowsill, but before she closed the glass door Frodo kindled another, smaller, candle from it. While he set this in another lantern and set a guard before the fire, Bell brought his cloak, draping it over his shoulders and fastening the button, as she had done on their very first meeting all those years ago. Frodo decided that, ‘of age’ as he was, he still cherished that motherly touch.

Bell went ahead to open the front door for him, as Frodo concentrated upon not dropping his precious first light. As he passed, and she closed the door behind them, Bell whispered. “Ye don’t have to do it alone, lad. We’re all here when ye need us.”

Down the lane, the rest of the Gamgee household stood ready at the gate, with their own candles. Frodo found his smile coming more easily now. “Yuletide greetings to you, Mister Hamfast.” 

Hamfast glanced to his wife, whose slight nod and smile let him know that all was well with Mister Frodo. “And to you, Mister Frodo.” Hamfast kindled his light from Frodo’s, intoning, “May we have hearth to comfort, fire to cook and candle to guide us home,” before passing it to all the others and carrying it indoors. When their own Yule log was kindled and a light set in the window of Number Three, Frodo joined the family as they stepped down the lane to Daddy Twofoot’s gate. There, it was Bell who passed the light from her lantern to Alver’s and in this way the Yule light was slowly spread through all of Hobbiton.

Little ribbons of light spread outward, down each lane, and then drew in again, as everyone began to converge upon the party field, where Bilbo had made his abrupt departure just a few months before. Frodo joined hands with his friends and neighbours about the huge bonfire, his voice raised in joy with theirs.

“Tis the time of endings.  
Tis the time of beginnings.  
Health, Hope and Happiness.  
Light, Love and Laughter.  
Prosperity and Peace to all!”

The next day Frodo joined the Gamgee family for a Yule feast that, although humble, was one he would remember for many years.

There followed a series of firsts for Frodo Baggins, the new master of Bag End. After his first Yule came the May Day celebration, where he joined his contemporaries circling the Pole and took his place with the Hobbiton Prancers. He won a prize for his fruit scones at the Lithe Fair and danced until he was breathless at the Harvest Reel. 

Frodo’s thirty-fourth birthday was smaller but no less lively than his thirty-third. Sam and Marigold Gamgee helped with the preparations, moving furniture and rolling carpets, to accommodate over twenty guests from all across the Shire. Even Bag End’s many guest rooms could not accommodate them all, and some had to take rooms at the Ivy Bush. Nonetheless, Frodo organised all, and Saradoc Brandybuck was heard to remark to his lady wife that his nephew appeared to be growing into a responsible gentlehobbit, despite his Uncle Bilbo’s influence. It became known as the One Hundredweight Feast at which it was said that it snowed food and rained drink. Whatever the truth of that, there were certainly a lot of very replete hobbits who staggered to their beds, well after the clock had struck midnight.

Frodo called goodnight to Bartimus and Daisy Brockbank and watched as they strolled, a little unsteadily, down the lane to Hobbiton and their own cosy little smial. Daisy paused to wave to her mother as they passed Number Three Bagshot Row, and Bell Gamgee called goodnight, before closing her door.

Frodo sat upon the bench by the garden gate and placed his wine glass upon the ground while he set flint and steel to his pipe. He had yet to develop a taste for the stronger pipeweeds, but he was fond of the milder Southern Star, and it was this that he had packed into his pipe before leaving the smial. As the leaf caught he dropped steel and flint into his pocket, surprised to hear them clink against something, and drew out the chain that he always kept attached to his belt, to gaze down at the pale gold circle in his palm. Bilbo had warned him that the ring had a disconcerting habit of changing size and that it was safest to keep it upon a chain.

Frodo had originally intended to follow Gandalf's injunction to leave the ring in its envelope, but he became worried about losing it during all the tidying done since Bilbo’s departure. It would have been awful if the envelope had got mixed up with some of Bilbo’s old notes and thrown on the bonfire. It was such a beautiful thing, after all. 

An owl called from the ancient oak atop Bag End’s green roof, breaking Frodo’s reverie, and he dropped the ring back in his pocket.

In the valley below there were now few lights in cottage and smial. Hobbiton was predominantly a farming village, after all, and folks kept farming hours, rising with the cockerels and going to bed with the cows. He watched the small lantern carried by his friend, Bartimus as it bobbed down the lane and turned to cross the bridge, before disappearing behind the clump of willow trees that shaded the wooden bridge across the river Water.

Ithil hid behind a stray cloud and the surrounding stars shone brighter. Frodo could remember clearly Bilbo’s soft voice murmuring, “That group which we call the Burning Briar, the elves call Otselen or Edegil, and in the high speech it is Valacirca, which means, Sickle of the Valar.” So many grand names for a half a dozen twinkling points of light. Frodo wondered if Bilbo was looking at the same sky, wherever he was, and lifted his glass in salute to the stars, so clear upon this night. “Happy Birthday, Bilbo dear.”


	4. Chapter 4

1403 was an important year for the Gamgee family. In February Bartimus and Daisy Brockbank advised Bell and Hamfast that they were to be grandparents before the year was out. Frodo heard the news via Sam and came knocking upon the back door of Number Three just after luncheon the next day.

Marigold Gamgee opened the door, dimpling deeply when she recognised the visitor. “Hello, Mister Frodo. Come in out of the cold. Ma’s just put the kettle on for a pot of tea.”

Frodo stepped inside gladly, for the previous night’s hard frost had a white rime still clinging to any area not yet directly touched by the sun, and allowed Marigold to divest him of his thick cloak. Bell Gamgee sat in her chair by the fire and the thought struck him that she looked a little drawn. Indeed, Bell had not looked well for some months, and Frodo had finally persuaded her to see Doctor Brockleby. What had passed between them, Bell never told him, but in his opinion she did not seem any the better for it.

“Good afternoon Mistress Bell. Sam told me your good news so I have brought a cake for the prospective grandparents. Bartimus and Daisy will get theirs when I go into Hobbiton for my shopping tomorrow.”

Frodo settled upon a bench set beside the huge kitchen table. Number Three did not boast enough room for a parlour so the kitchen also stood duty for parlour and dining room. The huge scrubbed wooden table dominated its centre, with benches to either side that could be tucked beneath when not required. By the scrupulously black-leaded kitchen range, which served as both fire and cooker, sat the only two chairs in the smial, Hamfast’s wooden armchair, with it’s worn cushions, and Bell’s rocking chair.

“And a very respectable cake it looks, Mister Frodo. Yer bakin’ has got better this past year,” Bell offered. In truth, it was a simple sponge cake, with a layer of raspberry jam and buttercream in the middle, but it was fluffy enough, with a golden top.

Her guest chuckled. “Arty’s hens and your pigs got more cake than I did in those first few months. It’s surprising how quickly one grows proficient when there’s nobody else to cook for you. Bilbo showed me the basic skills but, in truth, I never really bothered much until after he left, because he liked to cook.”

Frodo dosed his tea liberally with honey, for tea in the Gamgee household could stand up on its own, and tended toward 'bitter'. Bell set down her knitting as Marigold handed her a mug of dark tea. “Aye. Arty told me t’was well hens can’t fly, cause with that cake in them they’d never leave the ground.” 

The ribbing was good-natured and Frodo laughed again. “Well, I promise you that this one is not sad in the middle. No more ‘ring’ cakes for me, ever since you showed me how to check it with a skewer.” He accepted a plate from Marigold, containing a generous slice. Marigold cut another for herself but Frodo’s disquiet grew when he saw the small sliver that Bell accepted. Perhaps it was time for another chat with the lady, alone, for the previously well rounded matron was becoming a shadow of her former self. He decided not to pass comment upon her lack of appetite, in the presence of her youngest.

“Do you know when the baby is due?” Frodo enquired politely, after swallowing his first bite of cake and deciding that his baking skills had most definitely improved.

Bell shook her head. “Well, now, there’s the problem. Ye know that our eldest, Hamson, is to wed in Tighfield on the tenth of August? Well, according to Aster Tunnelly, our Daisy’s due about the same time. So she can't travel.” Aster was the local midwife and rarely wrong in such matters.

“We were all going to the weddin’ but Ma says she won’t leave Daisy alone. I’ve been tryin’ to tell her that the midwife will help, and Barti’s family is close by,” Marigold interjected with a frown.

“I’ll not have my first grandchild born without me and that’s flat,” Bell announced firmly. “I’ve told ye all to go without me. They’ll be that busy on the weddin’ day they’ll hardly notice I’m not there.” She shot a speaking glare at Marigold. “Especially if everyone else is there.”

Marigold rolled her eyes and Frodo grinned. “You know where I am if you need me, Mistress Bell. Don't worry, Marigold, I’ll look after her.”

Bell snorted. “I been lookin’ after myself longer than ye’ve been alive. I’ll not fall to pieces alone, here. In fact, mayhap I’ll get some cleanin’ done without lots of folk hangin’ on my skirts.”

Marigold grinned and Frodo had to hold back a laugh, for Number Three Bagshot Row was probably one of the cleanest homes in Hobbiton.

It was almost two months before Frodo managed to get his time alone with Bell. The May festival was on the morrow but Frodo came home early from gathering the blossom, because he had an appointment later that afternoon, with Ted Bracegirdle, about some small repairs to the properties on Bagshot Row.

The day was warm, so many homes had flung open their doors and windows to the gentle spring sunshine. As he was passing Number Three the sound of low moaning arrested his steps, however. From his place by the gate he could look directly into the smial, and what he saw had him racing into the kitchen, for there was Bell Gamgee, arms about her middle, rocking back and forth by the sink. 

“Mistress Bell! Bell. Whatever is the matter? Can I help?”

She turned pleading eyes to him, set in a face that was almost grey. “Chair.”

Frodo decided that bringing the chair to Bell was the safest option. Bell dropped into it with a grunt and began to rock, the creak of the runners running counterpoint to her groans, as Frodo dropped to the floor before her and touched a hand to her knee. “Should I fetch the doctor or send for Mister Hamfast?”

Bell shook her head, managing to bite out between clenched teeth, “Medicine, by my bed.”

Frodo had never been in any of the bedrooms of Number Three and the room's small size surprised him. The bed sat hard beneath the window. There was a curtained corner which he assumed served as wardrobe, a washstand in another corner, and a small cupboard by the bed, so it was easy to find the requested bottle. Returning to the kitchen, he read the dosage and trickled two spoonfuls into Bell’s mouth. Then he waited. By the old mantle clock it was nearly twenty minutes before Bell began to regain some colour and straighten in her chair. Once she did, Frodo stood. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No. Mayhap a drop of water, if ye don’t mind.”

Filling a mug, he placed it in her hands, before taking a seat upon the end of the bench at her side. “Whatever is the matter, Bell? You didn’t tell me the outcome of your visit to Doctor Brockleby, and I am loath to pry, but this is obviously serious. Please let me help you.”

Bell Gamgee sipped at her water for a while, obviously considering. Then she set down her mug with a sigh. “Tis the fat sickness,” she announced, baldly.

“The fat sickness? I don’t think I’ve heard of such a thing. Is it why you’ve not been eating much?”

“Aye. The doctor says there’s somethin’ inside yer body that helps the tummy to deal with the fat ye eat. Seems mine has stopped working and if I eat somethin’ fatty or eat too much I get an awful pain.”

“And the medicine helps?” Frodo asked.

“A bit. It’s really just pain medicine. Bill says there’s no cure.” Bell looked to the ceiling, obviously trying to hold back her tears, and Frodo slipped his spare hanky into her hand, swallowing back his own fears. He must be strong for Bell now.

“Surely it’s just a matter of eating the right food?”

Bell shook her head. “No. See, as Bill tells it, the thing is a little bag. It fills up with some stuff that it sends out to the tummy when ye eat. For me, the tube 'tween bag and tummy is blocked. Sometimes the blockage passes but one day it wont. Then the bag just goes on fillin’ and will likely burst. When that happens...” She grimaced.

“What will happen?”

Bell laid a careworn hand upon Frodo’s. “That will be it, lad. Bill says I could be one of the lucky ones, and go fast.”

“Oh Bell, no! Surely there's something we can do? Perhaps I could find another doctor for you. With all the respect due to Doctor Brockleby, he works in a small village. Perhaps someone from Michel Delving or Great Smials would have more knowledge.”

She patted his hand. “No. Tis what it is, lad. I’ve told my Ham but not the youngsters. They don’t need that spoilin’ their lives. They know I’m sick but they don’t need to know the rest yet.”

Frodo gave a wan smile. “That’s why you didn’t tell me, isn’t it?”

“Aye, lad. Yer older but ye’ve got yer own life to lead and yer still findin’ yer feet. I’m sorry ye had to find out. I didn’t mean to burden ye.” She sniffed, offering a rueful smile. “Pain sometimes makes ye say things ye shouldn’t.”

Now Frodo jumped to his feet. Bell had comforted him through difficult times, ever since his arrival in Hobbiton as a young tween. Selfish as it seemed, he could not bear the thought of losing her now. “Shouldn’t! Shouldn’t? Of course you should tell me.” He began to pace. “If nobody in the Shire can help maybe, maybe I could get a message to the elves. Bilbo used to write to Rivendell. I’m sure I remember how to do that. Elves have all kinds of magic.”

Bell’s firm injunction cut through his tirade. “No.”

Frodo spun about, open-mouthed. 

Bell continued. “This village has trusted Doctor Brockleby for as long as I remember. He knows what he’s about and I don’t need no other. As for elves. Well, I know ye and Mr Bilbo trust them, but I’m old fashioned. I’ll stick with what I know, although I thank ye kindly for the offer.”

“But…”

Once more, Bell stopped him. “No Frodo, lad. The best way ye can help me is to keep this to yerself. Mayhap I’ll need more help later and I hope I’ll be able to count on ye for that. Our Daisy is carryin’ a bairn and I've got to be there for her, so I’m goin’ to go on for as long as I can. We’ve all got to go sometime but, if ye don’t mind, I’m goin’ to ask a favour of ye.”

Frodo dropped to the bench at her side once more. “Name it, and I shall make it happen.”

Bell let out a soft chuckle. “No need fer the drama, lad. If I’m not there, will ye make sure our Daisy is looked after? Bartimus is a good lad but he’s still young yet and tis their first bairn.”

“Of course I will. Although you do know that Barti is older than me?”

“I do, but I also know everyone needs a little help sometimes. When I go, tis likely that folks will be too tied up in their own thoughts to pay attention to Daisy and Bartimus. I want ye to promise me that ye’ll be the one to give that attention. The others will pull ‘round with time, but they’ll have a bairn to care for too.”

Frodo took her hand between both of his. “I promise, Bell.”

“Good. Now give me a hug to seal the deal, and because I think we both need one.”

Frodo complied willingly, all too aware that the figure within his arms did not have the soft roundness it once had.

Over the next months Frodo watched Bell Gamgee grow more and more frail and, consequently, Hamfast cut back on his days away from home, dropping the last of his work outside Hobbiton. The reduction in the Gamgee family budget was more than covered by coin paid to Sam for working at Bag End. He was paid by the hour, so Frodo made sure to find him plenty to do to make those hours longer. 

As August approached Hamfast began to baulk at leaving his wife for any length of time, but Bell was steadfast in her insistence that as many of the family as possible attend the wedding of their oldest son. Daisy was huge by now, and travelling to the East Farthing on bumpy roads, even in a cart, was strenuously forbidden by both doctor and midwife.

On the seventh of August Frodo stood at the gate to Number Three, with Bell, Bartimus and Daisy, to wave off Sam, May, Marigold and Hamfast. May had arrived from Tuckborough the previous day. Frodo had insisted that the family should not have to walk such a distance and, against only the mildest protest, hired Tom Carter, stating that it was his wedding gift to Hamson and his wife-to-be, Clover. As soon as the cart disappeared around the bend at the bottom of the lane, Bell sagged and Frodo helped her back indoors.

Once she settled into her chair she seemed to rally. “Now, Daisy, ye and Bartimus need to get on with yer own life. I can manage well enough. Mister Frodo here has promised to pop in of an evenin’ to make sure I’m alright and I can knock on the wall fer Daddy Twofoot if tis urgent.”

Daisy was having none of it, however. “I’ve told you before, Ma. I’ll not have you here alone while you’re so sick. I still don’t understand why you don’t see another doctor neither. Doctor Brockleby don’t know what he’s doin’ in my eyes. I’ve heard tell of another doctor in Frogmorton; trained by the Thain’s own doctor they say.”

“That’s enough, Daisy. We’ve talked on this afore. Doctor Brockleby has always been good enough for Hobbiton folk, and ye’ve got yer own cottage to look after. Bartimus needs a good meal when he gets home of an evenin’ and ye’ve still got things to do to get ready for that bairn. I’ll be right enough with Mister Frodo callin’ in once a day. Off with ye all, now. I’ve one or two things to see to and then I think I’ll take a nap afore supper.”

Bell made shooing motions and Bartimus turned his wife about, to lead her firmly, despite her loud protests, through the door and down the path. Frodo grinned, knowing that Daisy would argue all the way home. When he closed the door and turned back, it was to find Bell filling the kettle. “Let me do that for you.”

“Oh, stop yer fussin’. I can make a pot of tea, even cook my own supper if I’ve a mind to. I’m not that far gone. Get away home, afore this weather closes in. My Ham’s joints were achin’ this mornin’, so I reckon tis goin’ to rain afore sundown. And ye needn’t call in tonight. Ye’ve seen me once today.”

Frodo decided to retreat, for the moment. “Very well. I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day, but I will pop my head around the door after supper.” Bell gave him a mutinous glare but her neighbour only grinned. “Your glare doesn’t scare me anymore, Bell Gamgee. I’ll see you later.” With those words he slipped out and back up the hill to his own home.

Daisy was truly her mother’s daughter and Frodo watched her climb Bagshot Row every morning, basket of food on her arm. It amazed him how large she had grown. He’d seen plenty of expectant ladies over the years. Hobbits were a fecund lot, as Bilbo used to say, but the eldest Gamgee lass seemed to do pregnancy as boldly as she did everything else in her life. There had never been any half measures with Daisy. Her walk was ponderous and a little pigeon-toed of late, but no less determined as she toiled up the hill from Hobbiton, and her visits meant that Frodo did not need to do much in the way of shopping for his neighbour. Not that he would have refused if needed. Indeed, seeing Daisy, he had approached her on the matter, but she would brook no argument, stubbornly stating, “Tis a daughter’s place to look after her Ma.”

Frodo did make a point of slipping in every evening after supper, however. Depending upon how Bell was feeling, sometimes he would just make them a pot of tea and stay for a few minutes, and at other times they would chat for a couple of hours, until Frodo felt awash with tea. 

On the fourth day Frodo looked out of his window to see Daisy, head bent against a rain squall, stop to wrap an arm about her middle, as she climbed the lane. The rain was obviously precursor to a storm, that Frodo, and just about everyone else, had been watching build. Clouds darkened as the powerfully gusting wind drove black clouds in from the east. From the comfort of his parlour window Frodo had seen laundry being rescued from washing lines, tools placed in sheds, and animals led to sheltering barns. He hoped the little smials along the river bank would not be flooded again. Now he abandoned his mug, not even pausing to grab his cloak, before pelting down the lane, through the driving rain.

“Daisy, are you alright?”

Daisy lifted her face to his and he read the fear there. “I had to come the long way round, by the stone bridge. You know how slippery the wood bridge gets when it’s raining. Then I went and fell at the bottom of the lane. Oh, Frodo, I think my waters have broke! What if I’ve killed my bairn?”

Frodo slipped an arm about her shoulders, as much in comfort as support. “Let’s get you inside first. Then we’ll sort out the rest and I’ll go for Aster if necessary. Lean on me, now.” By the time they reached the round yellow door of Number Three, Bell Gamgee was waiting and she helped Frodo usher her daughter to the rocker by the range, where a low fire glowed to heat water.

“Daisy Brockbank, what was you thinkin’, comin’ out in this weather, in yer state? I thought I’d bred more sense in ye.” For all her harsh words, Bell’s frown showed more concern than anger.

“Sorry, Ma. A gust of wind took me and I fell. Have I killed my bairn? Oh, Ma. Tell me my bairn isn’t dead!” 

Bell cut through the rising panic. “I’ll have a feel in a minute lass. Mister Frodo, would ye kindly run and fetch Aster Tunnelly?”

Frodo bolted for the door, pausing only when Bell called after him, “And put that cloak on. There’s enough trouble round here without ye catchin’ a chill as well. And see if ye can send someone fer Bartimus.”

Accepting the sense of his neighbour’s exhortation, Frodo grabbed Hamfast's thick old winter cloak, from a line of pegs behind the door, and stepped out into the downpour. He could not remember ever having run down Bagshot Row so quickly or so carelessly. Rain had all but overwhelmed the ditch to his left and mud made the lane treacherously slick under foot. It was no wonder that Daisy had slipped, particularly with the wind tugging this way and that. As it was, the cloak was almost as much hindrance as help, as the wind wound it about and between his legs, threatening to trip him with every wayward gust.

When Frodo reached the Water he could see large groups of people helping to move belongings from the river bank smials onto carts. No doubt they would be put in Tom Cotton’s barn for safe keeping until the flood subsided. Several beckoned for his help but Frodo had to refuse, shouting over the wind to tell them he was on other urgent business. The wooden bridge actually looked in danger of being swept away so he continued on to the stone one. That at least seemed secure for it had stood strong for generations. 

Once over the bridge he ducked into the Ivy Bush, knowing that there would always be someone about. When he arrived, sodden, Borden offered him a bar towel to wipe his face while he regained his breath. “What can I get ye, Mister Frodo?”

“Is Whitly around? I need him to find Bartimus Brockbank. Daisy is at her mother’s smial and she’s about to have their baby.”

Borden stuck his head through the kitchen doorway. “Whitly!”

Borden’s pot-boy appeared from the kitchen, sandwich in hand. He gulped the last mouthful as Borden all but shouted, “Go fetch Bartimus. I think he said he was workin’ for Farley Brownlock this week. Tell him to get to Number Three, Bagshot Row, as fast as he can.” Whitley did not question, onl grabbed his cap and darted out of the inn. 

“Thank you, Borden. Now I have to be off to Aster’s cottage.” Frodo was about to follow Whitly when Borden called after him.

“Aint no use goin’ there. Aster’s away at her sister’s in Frogmorton. Got an urgent message yesterday, about their Ma dyin’. And Doctor Brockleby’s took to his bed with a bad cough. Daisy won’t want him at a birthin’ with a cough like that.”

“What? But Daisy is going to have a baby!”

Borden shrugged his shoulders. “Bell Gamgee’s had enough bairns of her own to know what to do.”

“But Bell is…” Frodo bit off his words, knowing how proud Bell Gamgee was.

“Bell’s what?”

Frodo dove out of the door, shouting over his shoulder, “Never mind.”

The wind and rain pummelled him at once, bringing back memories of the awful storm of 1391. At least this year had been a good summer and most of the harvest was already in.

When he returned to Number Three he at first found no sign of mother or daughter, then he heard a cry from the bedrooms. For the length of that gut wrenching cry, every fibre of his body wanted to flee up the hill to the peaceful sanctuary of Bag End. Then he thought of the frail Bell Gamgee, threw his wet cloak on the kitchen table, shook the worst of the water from his hair, and knocked at Bell and Ham’s bedroom door. “It’s Frodo. May I come in?”

“Aye, sir. Daisy’s decent enough,” came Bell’s quiet reply.

Daisy had managed to strip down to her shift and was tucked into her parent’s bed. Bell sat upon the mattress at her side, looking weary but determined. 

Frodo decided to impart the good news first. “Borden Brewer has sent Whitly to find Barti.”

Daisy smiled apologetically. “I forgot to tell you, he’s workin’ at the Cotton’s today.”

Mentally, kicking himself for not consulting Daisy before fleeing the scene, he hoped Whitly would reach the prospective father eventually. Bell must have seen something in his demeanour. “Yer here awful quick to have got to Aster’s and back.” 

Frodo winced. “I’m sorry. Borden says she had word of her mother's death and has gone to Frogmorton.”

Bell’s expression remained calm. “Doctor Brockleby?”

Daisy saved him replying. “He’s sick.” Her face crumpled. “Oh Ma, what will we do? My bairn is goin’ to die!”

Her mother sniffed and Frodo saw an echo of the old Bell Gamgee. “Oh wisht yer snivellin’ lass. Folks were havin’ bairns long afore we had midwives and doctors. That one of yours is kickin’ fine, and I birthed yer brother, Halfred, in a barn with just yer Da to help. I’ve had enough myself to know how this goes.”

“A barn?” both younger hobbits asked in shocked unison. 

“Aye. Halfred were eager to get here and yer Da and me were helpin’ out at the Cotton’s fer the harvest.” Bell grinned. “I thought Tom Cotton were goin’ to have a fit when he saw me on his barn floor, with my feet on Ham's shoulders and a bairn half out.”

Daisy blushed and Frodo blanched, deciding that really was not an image he wanted in his head. He noted that her words cut through Daisy’s rising panic, however.

“Do you need me to do anything, Mistress Gamgee? Should I boil water or would you like me to fetch someone else?” Frodo winced in sympathy as Daisy gasped, rolling onto her side to curl about her pain and letting out another long, low, moan.

Bell sighed. “Why do lads always want to boil water as soon as a lass starts into labour? There’s hours yet, lad, although you’d do well to build up the fire.” Bell reached beneath the covers to rub her daughter’s lower back. “Ye can fetch my chair, if ye would, and Frodo…”

“Yes, Mistress Gamgee?”

“I think we’ll get rid of the Misters and Mistresses in here. Daisy’s goin’ to have precious little dignity left at the end of this so lets drop the formalities.”

“Yes Mi…Bell.”

The day wore on and by early evening there was no sign of either bairn or prospective father. Bell Gamgee sat in her rocker at the bedside and Frodo grew more and more concerned for her stamina. Daisy’s pains were growing closer and closer together and, from the noises she was making, more and more intense. Frodo was drafted into service mopping her brow and providing sips of water, while Bell rubbed her daughter’s back.

After a particularly intense period Bell sank back in her chair, reaching for her medicine bottle and spoon. “I’m sorry, but I’m goin’ to have to ask ye to take over for a bit, Frodo. And we need to take a look at how things is goin’.”

Both Frodo and Daisy looked to her in some alarm and Bell raised her brows. “What? I ain’t goin’ to fall apart on ye. I just need a bit of a rest is all. I’m just not up to clamberin’ on beds right now.”

Frodo looked askance at Daisy, who met him with a mullish gaze.

Bell swallowed her medicine and tilted her head at Frodo. “Don’t tell me ye’ve never seen 'neath the skirts of a lass, Frodo Baggins. Ye may not have done anythin’ about it but I’ve seen ye slip into the bushes with many a willin’ maid at Harvest Reel.”

Frodo felt himself colour from the hair on his toes to the hair on his head. For her part, Daisy announced, “He may have seen other lasses bits and pieces but he aint never seen mine and he aint startin’ now!”

“Well, somebody’s got to see ‘em and I don’t see no-one else in this room, Daisy Brockbank,” Bell pointed out with an exasperated sigh.

Daisy and Frodo locked eyes for several moments longer. Daisy finally let out a huff. “Alright.”

“Sense at last,” her mother declared. “Right, lad. Fold back the covers to her waist. Daisy, spread yer legs and bend yer knees. Ye should know how to do that.” Now it was Daisy’s turn to blush, but she followed instruction. 

“Frodo, ye’ll have to climb on the bed. I want ye to reach in, gentle mind, and see what ye can feel.”

In the process of complying Frodo paused. “Reach…in?” 

At the astonished expressions of both parties Bell rolled her eyes. “Aye. In. It’s the hole at the front.”

With an apologetic glance at Daisy, Frodo followed instructions, although he had to wait while she breathed through another contraction before complying. He studiously avoided looking at Daisy’s face again as he did so.

“Here, what’s goin’ on? What are you doing with my wife, Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo looked up to find a very angry-looking Bartimus Brockbank glaring at him from the bedroom doorway. He suspected that, had he not had his hand trapped within Daisy’s nether regions, he would have found himself in possession of several broken bones and a black eye. “Bell made me,” was all Frodo could come up with, as he very carefully removed his hand and scrambled quickly off the bed.

“Barti. You’re here!” Daisy’s initial cry of delight quickly morphed to anger. “And just where do you think you’ve been, while I’ve been birthing your bairn?”

“What? You’ve had him…er…her?” Bartimus jumped forward and Frodo took the opportunity to retreat to the wash basin in the corner.

“Course she hasn’t,” Bell replied. “But we need to know how close she is. What did you feel, Frodo?”

From the relative safety of his corner Frodo replied, “I can’t be sure, but I thought I felt something.”

“Of course ye felt somethin’! What sort of somethin’? Were it hard, soft, empty, what?” Bell tutted. “Lads is useless in a birthin’ room. Ye remember that next time, Daisy,” she exhorted.

Daisy scowled at her husband. “There won’t be no next time.”

Before Bartimus or Daisy could fall to debating that matter, Frodo stepped out of his corner. “It felt … well … hairy and slippery.”

Bell gave a broad grin. “Well, now. Seems this un’s takin’ after her Uncle Hamson. Ye can leave the covers folded back, Frodo.” She turned her attention back to Daisy. “Next time the pain comes, if ye want to push, do it. But try to keep it slow and gentle. If ye push too hard ye could tear yerself.”

When Daisy’s eyes widened her mother only shook her head. “I can still tie a stitch if I have to, lass, but for both our sakes I’d be obliged if ye'd listen for once.“

“Bartimus, as yer so snippy about Frodo doin’ it, strip down to yer shirt and breeches, wash yer hands and get yerself on this bed.”

Bartimus followed instruction and a very relieved Frodo moved to stand at Bell’s chair. Even by lamplight he could see that she was growing pale, and bent to her ear to ask if she needed more of her medicine. “What time is it?” she replied beneath a loud scream from Daisy, who had apparently decided that, if she was suffering, the whole world should know about it. Frodo suspected that her cries could be heard down in the village, even over the sound of the storm. 

He stuck his head out of the door to check the mantle clock in the kitchen, surprised to discover that it was past supper time. “Eight o’clock,” he murmured. “It’s six hours since your last dose.”

“Then I can have more. Thank ye, lad.” Bell took her medicine as Bartimus rocked his wife through another contraction.

“Alright, Barti, lad. What can ye see?”

Bartimus clambered between his wife’s legs, eyes widening as he said, “I think I see a head. It’s right at the opening.”

“About bloody time,” Daisy muttered.

“Daisy Brockbank, I’ve told ye afore. I’ll not have foul talk in my home. Bartimus, I want ye ready to catch yer bairn, then lay it on Daisy’s belly while ye cut the chord. Tie two pieces of thread, tight about it, and about a hand-span apart. Then use that sharp knife to cut in between. Daisy, ye just push when ye feel the urge, but remember what I said about slow and steady.”

“What can I do?” asked Frodo.

“Well, some of that hot water ye were so keen on earlier wouldn’t go amiss. We’ll soon have some cleanin’ up to do.” 

Frodo followed instruction but discovered that, having spent most of the day wanting to escape, now he didn’t want to leave. He was back with a ewer of hot water in time to see a small, slippery body laid upon Daisy’s exposed belly. All eyes fixed upon the small creature. At first the bairn was still and grey, but as an awestruck Daisy ran her hand along the tiny spine the small mouth opened to emit a wail and grey skin began to flush pink.

Bartimus turned a beaming face to his friend. “It’s a lass, Frodo.”

Bell was all business, however. “Aye, well, if yer lass is goin’ to live her own life she needs that chord cuttin’ Bartimus. Daisy, ye’ll feel the need to push again soon. There’s the afterbirth to come.”

Frodo watched in fascination as the new father severed the physical connection between mother and child. 

Half an hour later the room was tidy and Bartimus and an exhausted Daisy settled, side by side, on the bed, daughter cradled in their joined arms. A besotted Frodo watched from Bell’s side. “What are you going to call her?”

The new parents turned to an equally exhausted grandmother. “Bell,” they announced together.


	5. Chapter 5

Bell Gamgee died the week before Frodo’s birthday. She had helped in the birth of her first grandchild and held on until all of her family could make it home to say goodbye, but one fine late summer morning Frodo answered the door to a weeping Sam Gamgee. He had barely ushered in his friend when Sam blurted out, “Ma’s gone, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo’s heart flopped in his chest, like a fish dragged onto the river bank on a hot summer day. “Oh Sam. Come in. Sit down.” He ushered Sam into the warmth of Bag End’s kitchen and sat him down at the table, setting a cup of tea in front of him before taking the next chair and draping an arm about his friend's trembling shoulders.

“Pa sent us all to bed last night. I wanted to stay but Ma said, ‘No’.”

“She was a proud lady. Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her at such a private moment.” Frodo swallowed back his own tears and offered his hanky, watching as Sam swiped tears from blotchy cheeks. “Did she go in her sleep, then?”

“Da says so. He’s not sayin’ much else, mind you; just sittin’ there at her bedside. He won’t even let our Daisy lay her out. Hamson’s gone to tell Birki Bracegirdle, and he’ll dig a grave next to Grandpa Holman, but Da won’t let Tom Buckleby measure her for a coffin, so he’s goin’ to have to guess. He says he’s seen our Ma enough times to know what he’s doin’.” Sam’s hands shook as he lifted he cup to his lips.

Frodo considered the amount of weight lost by Bell in recent months. The coffin would be small. “Is all the family at Number Three?” Frodo asked. The previous week a summons had gone out to family far and wide, and so many had responded that Number Three could not accommodate them all. Hamson and his new wife were staying with Daisy and Bartimus in the village and one or two more distant relations had taken rooms at the Ivy Bush.

“They’re all in the kitchen. It’s awful tight and I needed to get away for a bit.” Sam wiped away another flow of tears. “Am I bein’ selfish?”

“No, Sam.” Frodo suspected it was not the press of bodies, but of emotions, that were overwhelming his friend. So many grief-stricken people in such a small place could not be comfortable. “We all grieve in our own way and you know I’ll always be here for you, or anyone else in your family. You were all there for me often enough over the years and I’m honoured that you chose Bag End as your refuge.”

Sam looked aside at his friend. “I’m sorry to impose, Mister Frodo. You loved her too. I remember Ma once sayin’ you were like family. I expect you miss her too.”

Frodo sniffed back a tear. Now was not the time for him to let go. Sam and the rest of the Gamgee family needed practical help for the moment, even if it was just a shoulder to cry on. “I do miss her, but you can stay here for as long as you like, Sam. You will never be an imposition. Have you had any breakfast?”

“Thank you for the offer, Mister Frodo, but I don't think I could eat anythin'.”

Standing, Frodo turned to the pantry. “I happen to know that Bell Gamgee would be horrified to think of her son going without at least one breakfast. I shall make you a fried egg sandwich and you will eat it, Samwise Gamgee.” In his mind he could hear Bell Gamgee exhorting, ‘Tis better to face trouble on a full stomach than an empty one’.

Once out of sight Frodo leaned against the pantry shelves and let his tears fall for a couple of minutes. Then he dried his eyes, blew his nose and got on with the business of caring for his friend.

Half an hour later he was walking, arm in arm with Sam, through the yellow door of Number Three. The kitchen was full of people and yet it seemed empty, without Bell Gamgee’s presence. Nobody was speaking and, for the first time, Frodo felt a little out-of-place among the large clan. Still, it was proper to give his condolences.

“I am very sorry to hear about your Ma. She was like a mother to me and I shall miss her very much.” The words felt too brief to describe how he would miss Bell’s gentle advice, her wry humour, the arms that wrapped around him so warmly, her homely smell of baking and strong tea.

It was her eldest, Hamson, that spoke up. “Thank you, Mister Frodo. I know Ma loved you very much.”

“If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.” When there was no immediate response Frodo turned to leave, then a surprisingly hesitant Daisy spoke.

“There’s Da.”

“I’m sure Mister Frodo don’t want to get that caught up, Daisy,” chided Hamson, her eldest brother.

“I’ll help wherever I can, Ham, but if you’d rather be alone I understand. I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted you to know that I’m here if you need me.” Once more Frodo made for the door and once again he was stopped. 

“I’m sorry, Frodo. Ma would rightly remind me you’re as much family as any of us.” Hamson offered a hand and Frodo shook it, a little self-consciously. Ham nodded toward the entrance to the bedrooms. “We’ve all tried, but Da won’t let us move her. She’s goin’ to have to be moved soon. Daisy and May want to lay her out.” He dropped his head. “Tis the last thing we can do for her and we want to do it right.”

Frodo swallowed, his gaze drawn to the bedroom shared by Bell and Hamfast Gamgee. For all his offering, he had not expected this, and he was not sure that he was up to the challenge. It was all very well seeing the bodies of people you knew only tangentially, but Bell Gamgee was family to Frodo in all the ways that really mattered. The prospect of entering that room revived in him the uncomfortable memory of a distant river bank, and two sodden bundles in the mud.

Bell’s words of not so long ago drew him back at last. He had once asked why she always knew the right thing to say and she had replied that she did not. Then she added, “I’ve learned to hide it well when I don’t”. Time for Frodo to apply one of the many lessons Bell Gamgee had taught him over the years. With a nod to Hamson, he straightened his shoulders and rounded the crowded table, to knock upon the time-smoothed planks of the bedroom door.

When there was no reply to a second knock Frodo opened the door a crack to murmur, “It’s Frodo, Mister Gamgee. May I come in?”

The voice that replied was so rough with weeping that it was hardly recognisable as Hamfast Gamgee. “Aye, lad. If you must.”

Must he? Frodo wanted to turn about and walk away, but when he glanced aside it was to see every face willing him on. Taking a deep breath he stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Bell Gamgee’s husband sat in her old rocking chair. Not yet able to bring himself to look at the bed, Frodo laid a had upon Hamfast’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Hamfast.” ‘Mister’ seemed far too formal for the occasion.

“Aye. My Bell was fond of you. She told me not to send until she’d…until she’d gone.” Hamfast’s voice sounded flat, holding none of its usual robust humour.

“That sounds like Bell. She wouldn’t want a fuss.” Thinning his lips, Frodo steeled himself to look. He hardly recognised the figure in the bed. The face was drawn, where illness had melted away round cheeks, the skin waxy and yellow, and the eyes closed and sunken. This was not Bell Gamgee.

It wasn’t just the physical changes that had been wrought by months of illness. It was the spark that was Bell Gamgee that was missing. Had the body shown no outward change he would still not have recognised Bell in the figure. Bell was gone, leaving only a husk and, somehow, that knowledge, gave Frodo the strength he needed.

“Daisy and May want to lay her out. It’s one last thing that they can do to show their love for their mother. Will you let them come in?”

Hamfast shook his head and now his voice rose in panic. “I can’t. I can’t put my Bell in the ground. It’s not right! She should have been here to see all her lasses wed and our Sam settled.”

Frodo knelt at Ham’s side, placing a hand upon his where it lay, curled like an autumn leaf, in his lap. “No. It’s not. But you won’t be putting Bell in the ground. Bell has already gone somewhere else. This is just her body.” He squeezed that hand gently. “The Bell we know is still here. She’s in you, and in all of your children in the next room. She’s in me and the many other folk she’s touched with her love over the years. You can’t bury that. We’ll carry her with us always and she’ll see all those events through our hearts.”

For some moments Frodo wondered if Hamfast had heard him, or, if he had, whether he understood what Frodo was trying to say. Then Ham took a deep breath and met Frodo’s eyes. “That’s just the kind of thing my Bell would say.”

Frodo gave a faint smile. “I’d like to hope so. Shall I fetch the girls, then?”

“Aye. And there’s other things to arrange I suppose.”

And so it was that Bell Gamgee was laid out by her two eldest daughters that morning. There would be no simple shroud for Bell. Frodo and several others in Hobbiton made sure that she had a coffin of fine but simply dressed oak, with a wake held at the Ivy Bush. Nearly everyone from Hobbiton and many from the villages around about attended. Even the Sandyman family were not turned away by Bordon Brewer on this occasion. 

Frodo had no doubt that Bell would have called it too much fuss, but it was what everyone else needed to start the healing process.

On the evening after the wake Frodo sat in Bag End’s kitchen and poured himself a cup of tea. The pot was brewed half an hour ago and, although the cosy had kept it warm, it was now rather strong. About to tip it out and brew another pot, he sat down instead, cradling the mug as he stared into the dark and cloudy brew.

He preferred his tea brighter, but Bell Gamgee had always served a brew that Bilbo used to say would strip paint. He could hear Bilbo’s good-natured grumbling and Bell’s answering snort.

The two people who had been his teachers and support throughout the tumultuous tweenage years were now both gone. He liked to think that Bilbo was still out there, somewhere, having some grand adventure and Bell… where was she, he wondered? Was there another life beyond this? He liked to think there was. Was Bell having her own adventure?

No. Not Bell Gamgee. Adventures were not for her. She would be sitting in a kitchen somewhere, dispensing tea, comfort and advice. It gave Frodo little comfort to think of her being the rock of some other orphan tween, wherever she was. He wanted her here. In his efforts to ensure that he was there for everyone else, Frodo had set aside his own pain and now it bubbled to the surface like porridge left to boil. That’s when he realised that grief was a very selfish emotion, and that he didn’t care that it was, because he hurt, damn it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have noticed a recent increase in the number of kudo's received on all my fics and just wanted to say a big thankyou to any new readers. The site has no facility for thanking kudo's individually.

Dropping his basket on the kitchen table, Frodo stepped into Bag End's extensive back garden. Having purchased a nice fresh fish in the market, on his journey home he had decided that a smothering of parsley sauce was just what it needed. Even this early in the year, he knew there would be parsley in his little herb corner. 

“Sam? Sam!” Marigold's unusually aggravated voice drifted up from the shared yard behind Bagshot Row. Looking down, he could see the Gamgee's youngest, struggling from the well with two buckets of water. There was no sign of the requested Sam, so Frodo hopped the garden fence and ran to help. 

“Let me have these, Marigold. I sent Sam off with a basket of vegetables to Widow Goodburrow.” He took the handles from the frazzled-looking lass. “I'm afraid I forgot that it was laundry day. Is Fern Bracegirdle not coming to help you this week?”

Marigold relinquished the buckets willingly and blew a strand of copper hair out of her eyes then, when it persistently returned to plague her, reached up to shove it under her cap. “She sent word her youngest has the colic. It can't be helped and I'd have left the laundry for tomorrow, but I put the whites in to soak last night.”

They had reached the wash-house by now and Frodo tipped water into the large copper, which was still only half full. Several large tubs, lined up on the floor, stood testament to her words. “It looks as though it is just we two, then.” He turned up his shirt sleeves. “I'll go on filling the copper if you add wood to the fire. I just need to nip home to put my shopping away, then I'll be back.”

Marigold's green eyes widened. “I couldn't ask you to do that, sir. I'll see if my Da has come home.”

Frodo's heart lifted. “Has he gone visiting, then?”

Pausing in her arranging of firewood, Marigold sighed. “No, Mister Frodo. He just goes walkin'. He don't tell me where, even when I ask, but I think he walks down on the common. He once told me him and Ma used to go courtin' there. He may have got home by now.” She sounded somewhat dubious.

“Don't disturb him if he is. I've helped with laundry before and I have nothing planned for the rest of the day. You continue to build a fire under the copper and I'll be back in a few minutes.”

The fact that she capitulated so quickly told Frodo much about Marigold's lot. “My Ma would have tore me a strip for acceptin', but I do need help, so I thank you Sir.”

As he arranged his food on the pantry slab, Frodo considered Hamfast Gamgee. He was not the only one to worry that Mister Gamgee no longer sold his potatoes at market or sat with a half in the Ivy Bush. Indeed, other than when he worked with Sam, nobody saw much of him at all. The usually garrulous Hamfast was, nowadays, quite taciturn.

A few days later Frodo stood at Bag End’s kitchen window, watching Ham and Sam Gamgee at work in his vegetable plot. In truth, Sam was doing most of the work, for his da moved more slowly these days. Hamfast seemed to have lost his spark. Goodness knows, he was entitled, but it worried Frodo, nonetheless. Young as he still was, he had seen enough of Hamfast and enough of death and grieving, to find the older hobbit's behaviour disquieting. Hamfast seemed to be falling ever deeper into himself.

Grief could do that, Frodo knew only too well. As a youngster he had lost both parents, and had dealt with it quite differently. It was not until he came to live with Bilbo, and under Bell Gamgee’s comforting wing, that he had finally begun to acknowledge and process his pain. Everyone grieved in their own way, and Frodo knew that Sam and Marigold took flowers to their mother’s grave every week. But Hamfast's behaviour reminded Frodo of an apple, being eaten away by a canker inside.

Sam picked up the trug, containing assorted vegetables, and trotted toward the kitchen door where Frodo now stood, watching Hamfast clean rich soil from their tools.

“Hello, Mister Frodo.” Sam wiped his feet on the mat before accepting Frodo's invitation to step onto the tiled kitchen floor. “We’ve lifted you some nice new potatoes. They'll be good, boiled with a sprig of mint. There’s a good head of cabbage; he squeezed it, smiling when it gave a gratifying creak, “And some peas of course, and the lettuce is comin’ along nicely, so I’ve cut you one of those as well. It’ll go nice with those radishes I brought you yesterday; lovely with a bit of cold pie.” As he spoke he unloaded, while Frodo ferried them to the pantry. 

“This will keep me going for several days, Sam. If there’s a glut of anything, can I rely on you pass on the excess to anyone who needs it? You don't need to ask first. Bag End produces far too much food for one hobbit, especially under the expert care of you and your father.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll see to it. Our Daisy wouldn’t say no to a few pea’s and taters. Their garden’s a mite small to feed three. And there’s the widow Goodburrow. Since her daughter died last summer she’s been findin’ it hard to make ends meet.”

“I tell you what, Sam. If you select what you think they would like, I’ll deliver it. They're both on the square and I promised Daisy I would visit tomorrow.”

Sam beamed. “You’re kindness itself Mister Frodo. You're not obliged but you've been good to us Gamgees. Don’t think we don't appreciate it, and I reckon if Da were more himself he would have told you.” Both turned to watch as a silent Hamfast latched the tool shed door.

“Oh Sam, your family has been there for me, probably more times than I remember, especially your mother. I’m only doing what any good neighbour would do.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but no. You’ve not been a neighbour. You’ve not even been a friend. I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, but you’ve been like family. Daisy told me you've checkin’ in on her and Bartimus regular, bringin' food or little things for Bell, more often than not.”

Frodo spoke past a sudden constriction in his throat. “I made a promise to your mother, and it’s been a pleasure, watching little Bell thrive.” He broke into a wry grin. “She’s got Bartimus’ eyes but the lungs were definitely a gift from her mother.”

“I don’t think it helps that she’s teethin’,” Sam replied with a chuckle. “With all but me and Marigold goin’ back to their own homes, Daisy was feelin’ a bit lonely while Bartimus was workin’. Marigold’s taken over runnin’ our smial and I’m doin’ most of the gardenin’ nowadays, ‘cause of Da’s joints. So we've neither got to visit as much as we'd like.”

“How is your Da? Should he be doing any gardening at all? I’ll be honest, Sam.” Frodo dropped his voice. “He doesn’t look well.” Through the open door, Frodo watched Hamfast Gamgee limping slowly down the hill.

“His arthritis is kickin’ up somethin’ fierce. It seems worse since Ma left. I keep tellin’ him he should retire, but he says we need the coin. I earn a fair bit doin’ for you, and I thank you for it, but he's right, and I confess it would be lean pickin’s if that’s all we had comin’ into the smial.”

“Yes. I see. And I don’t really need any more doing around here. I wish I did.”

“Bless you, Mister Frodo. You’re already givin' me more work than you rightly need to. Don’t you go worrittin’. We’ll do just fine. When he’s havin’ a bad day I can fit Da’s jobs around my work here well enough. Other jobs can wait a while. As things stand, most folk are good about that.”

Frodo had been checking his monthly accounts only that morning and now he had a sudden epiphany. “Sam. I wonder if you could ask your father to call in here this evening. I had a new barrel of ale delivered from Buckland last week. It should be settled by now and I’d like his opinion. I know he has a fondness for good beer.”

Although Sam frowned at the sudden change of subject, but put it down to the strange Baggins temperament. “Aye, sir. I’ll mention it to him. He hasn’t been down the Ivy Bush since Ma’s wake. I think it brings back the memory. I reckon he’ll be about ready for a good half.”

So it was that, after supper, Hamfast Gamgee came knocking at Frodo’s door. Soon they were both settled comfortably in the parlour with a large jug of beer on the low table between them. 

Frodo hid a grin as Ham took a goodly swallow of his ale, eyes lighting up for what may have been the first time since Bell’s death. “So, what do you think of it. With your own brewing skills I thought you’d be the one to give me an opinion. Uncle Saradoc swears it’s the best in the Shire but, as he oversaw the brewing, I think we can consider him more than a little biased.”

Hamfast took another good draught and Frodo leaned in with the jug to top up his pot. “It travels well, I’ll give him that. And tis clear as a new flowed spring. It pains me to say it, as you know my opinions on folks that live the other side of the Brandywine River, but tis easily as good as Borden Brewer’s.” He sampled another swallow before adding the rider, “I still think Filbert Spelt at the Green Dragon has him beat, though.”

Frodo chuckled. “I think even Uncle Saradoc would not be too upset about coming in second, to the Green Dragon. My cousins assure me they sell the best in the Shire.”

“'You should drop in and try it one day, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo grimaced. “Well. I’m afraid I tend to avoid Bywater and the Green Dragon. I understand it’s where Ted and Orton Sandyman do their drinking nowadays.”

“Ahh. I can see where that could be a problem.” Hamfast took another swig from his pot and Frodo topped it off again.

“Can I offer you some pipeweed, Master Hamfast? I have some Old Toby here.” 

“Wouldn't mind if I do,” Hamfast grinned, fishing in his waistcoat pocket for his battered pipe, as Frodo handed over the appropriate jar from atop the mantelpiece. He noted that Ham’s bent fingers were a little clumsy when packing, and took it upon himself to light a spill from the nearby candle for him.

As Hamfast drew deeply upon his pipe to get it started, Frodo packed his own. For some minutes they sat in silence, Frodo sipping at his ale and Hamfast taking deeper swallows. Frodo spoke first, deciding it was time to drop the honorifics. “How are you, Hamfast?”

His guest cleared his throat. “I'm doin' well enough, considerin'. Thank you for askin'.”

Frodo could all but feel Bell standing at his shoulder, frowning at her husband. “I hope you don't think me too forward for saying it, but you seem a bit distant since Bell died. I know we all deal with loss in our own way, and I'm still rather young in your eyes, but I wondered if there was anything I could do for you?”

When Ham took a while to answer, Frodo worried that he had crossed a line. Then the older hobbit lifted his head to meet his gaze and Frodo all but drowned in the pain shimmering there. Ham cleared his throat. “I let her down at the end.”

Frowning, Frodo coaxed him on. “Why do you say that? I cannot imagine you ever letting anyone down, least of all Bell.”

Hamfast lowered his beer, dropping his gaze. “I didn’t want her to go.” He shrugged. “I kept hopin’ that Bill Brockleby would come burstin’ in the door with a cure.”

When he began probing, were he honest, Frodo had half hoped that Ham would continue to wave away his concern. “That must have been difficult for you.” He winced at his own inanity, however Hamfast seemed not to notice.

“We was married forty years, and I loved every part of it…every part of her. She told me about your offer, of writin’ to Rivendell, you know. I begged her to let you but she’d have none of it. Said elvish stuff weren’t for the likes of her. Made me promise not to speak to you.” Hamfast took another deep swallow of his ale. “Then she asked me to help her.” 

“Help her, how?” Frodo asked, a little confused.

Hamfast shook his head. “Bill Brockleby had left us a full bottle of that medicine he'd been givin' her for the pain. He said as not to give her too much, ‘cause it could stop her breathin’.” He continued to stare down into his mug.

A shocked, “Oh,” was all Frodo could come up with by way of response. Such a revelation had not occurred to him.

Now that his defences had been breached, Hamfast spilled all. “She was in so much pain but I was selfish. I wanted every last minute with her, and told her, “No”. She sort of dozed off after a while and I was left to thinkin’. That's when it came to me that, if I loved her, it were the last thing I could do for her. I poured the medicine into a cup but I didn’t have the heart to wake her. She was sleepin’ so peaceful at last.” He finished off his beer but when Frodo reached over to refill the pot he shook his head. “She never woke up. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for puttin’ her through so much pain at the end.”

“You did not put her through that pain, Hamfast, and in the end you decided to do as she asked.”

“I did. I just wish I’d decided sooner.” He accepted a lit spill to rekindled the pipe, which had burned out during his revelation.

Frodo took a deep breath, feeling the ghost of a work-worn hand upon his shoulder. “I cannot imagine being placed in your position, and I don’t know what my decision would have been if I were. I do know that Bell loved you very deeply and, if there is any forgiving to be done, I am certain that she would do it.”

“Do you think so? Aye. I suppose she would. That’s my Bell. But can I forgive myself? I still let her down, forgiven or no.”

There was an unseen nudge at his shoulder. “Only you can answer that question. May I suggest that if you can’t forgive, you at least make peace with yourself? Can you live for your children?” Frodo took a deep swallow of his beer before continuing. “I hope I am not too forward, but of late it sometimes feels as though you died too. Daisy was looking forward to sharing her first child with her mother. Marigold and Sam are still quite young and need someone to lean on. You were Bell’s husband but you’re their father too. They miss their mother terribly but I think they miss you too. In a way, their loss of you is worse, for they see you daily but feel they cannot approach. I'll admit, my experience of death is limited, but it seems to me that grief is less painful when it is shared.”

Ham pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I have been leavin’ ‘em to it a bit, aint I?” He grimaced. “Sometimes you’ve a head older than your years, Mister Frodo. Bell always said so.”

“I confess it hasn’t felt that way since Bilbo left. Bell once told me that there was more to ‘coming of age’ than counting birthdays, and she was right. I miss her, too.”

“Here, I’ve been so bound up in myself that I haven’t had a thought for anyone else. Poor Sam’s been doin’ most of my work as well as his own. If I don’t step up again we’ll lose jobs, and that won’t do. Then there's young Marigold. She's still but a lass and had to take on all her Ma's work. I've not even asked her how she's feelin'. I left most of the raisin' of the lasses to their mother but I'm goin' to have to be there for Mari now.”

Now Frodo stepped in with the idea that had been fermenting in his head ever since speaking to Sam earlier. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh yes?” Hamfast gave a small grin. “Seems to me you’ve been thinkin’ about a lot of things; bringin’ me up here, plyin’ me with strong ale and a good pipe. You’re gettin’ as canny as yer Uncle Bilbo. Come on then. Out with it.” Here, at last, was a flash of the old Hamfast Gamgee.

“You know that Bilbo left me well provided for. I have a fine roof over my head and the rents from all the properties on Bagshot Row, as well as other bits and pieces that we needn’t go into. He took very little away with him.” Frodo shifted, Bilbo’s ring feeling suddenly heavy in his pocket.

“Bless you! You've no need to be tellin' me of your coin, Mister Frodo, and you’ve been very free with it, especially to my Sam. He earns more here than he ever did workin’ for them Sackville-Baggins’, and them with all their airs-and-graces.”

Frodo only rolled his eyes at mention of his notoriously stingy relatives. “The thing is, I don’t spend half of the money I have coming in and could easily afford to lose some of it. I know that you find gardening difficult nowadays.”

“Aye. All them years workin’ outdoors in all weathers catches up with a body in the end,” Hamfast agreed as he rubbed one swollen knee. “But we need the coin.”

“Precisely. I wondered if you and your family would accept a gift from me.” Frodo pressed on, as Hamfast drew breath for denial. “Here me out. I would like to sign over the deeds to Number Three to you. That way you would not have to find rent and you could give up working altogether.” He waited.

Hamfast straightened, his lips thinning as he carefully set down his beer. “I'm sure you mean well, Mister Baggins, but I've always provided for me and mine. The Gamgee's have never been beholden to anyone.”

Frodo's heart sank and he leaned forward. “Oh dear. Now I have made a mess of things and offended you. I would not do that for the world. I did not mean to imply that you were not capable of caring for your family. It's just that you and Bell, indeed all your family, have been so good to me over the years. Please don't be offended.” 

Hamfast studied him for several moments, then leaned back in his chair. “You're still a youngster, so I'll take your words in the way intended.” He tilted his head. “Tis a tidy offer but I don't see as I've done anythin' to earn such a present.”

Frodo laughed. “Not done anything! You and Bell took me into your family. Indeed, you reminded me what a family should be. Oh, Bilbo was dear but he was tied up in his studies or dreaming of mountains most of the time. You and Bell reminded me what family could be.” He dropped his head to study the foam on his beer. “I don't know how much Bell told you, but when my parents died I shut away the memories of home. I forgot what it was to be a child, loved unconditionally. Bell helped me re-open that box. Indeed, you and she didn’t just show me, you let me be a part of that. Not done anything? Your entire family have done everything.”

“Mercy! Did we now? Well, my Grand-da once said as how it takes a whole village to raise a bairn, and me and Bell just did what was needful. But I thank you for the noticin’ of it. As for your offer… I don’t hardly know what to say.”

“Just say, yes. I can get the deeds witnessed and transferred to you within days. Please allow me to say thank you in this way. If not for you, then as thanks to Bell. It would please me to honour her in this way.”

“For Bell, you say?” Hamfast pursed his lips in thought. “Bell would have liked for us to own our own smial, though she never pushed the matter. She was always the practical one, my Bell, and there were bairns to be fed.” He allowed himself a soft smile. “I expect she'd be tellin' me not to be so daft and take what's offered in friendship.”

Frodo took a deep breath at last. “Bell gave so much, to everyone. Allow me to make this gift, on behalf of all of Hobbiton. Think of it as repayment, if you wish. You have earned a quiet retirement.”

Hamfast rubbed his knee again, then straightened. “I reckon I could accept it as payment and in memory of my Bell. Thank you Mister Frodo.”

Frodo grinned, feeling himself enfolded in invisible loving arms that bore the faintest whiff of new baked bread. “Then, for Bell. Allow me to refill your mug and we shall drink to it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With everyone on lockdown and stressed out of their skulls, I have decided to post this fic a little faster than intended. Please forgive any grammar mistakes. I have no beta. So here is another episode of hobbit gentleness.

“Evenin’ Mr Frodo. Half of best is it?”

“Good evening Mr Brewer. Yes, please. It’s very busy in here. Is somebody celebrating a birthday?”

Borden Brewer slid a pot under the tap. “Nay, Sir. Have you forgot the elections?”

“Good gracious. I had. I thought it was next week.” Frodo accepted the pot and handed over his coin. “Who is standing this year?”

“Well, Tom Cotton says he’ll stand for another seven years, but Mr Bilbo’s leavin’ has left an openin’ for the other.” Frodo could see several sets of eyes glancing his way. No doubt they were discussing Bilbo’s departure...yet again. Bilbo had been one of the village voters at the Free Fair since his father died, and since his own arrival in Hobbiton Frodo had enjoyed travelling with him. 

The White Downs, west of Michel Delving, were too close for safety to the borders of the Shire most of the time and, consequently, were left to the grazing of sheep. Every seven years, however, The Shire elected a Mayor and Shirrifs at the Free Fair, and the White Downs were transformed by rows of colourful tents and awnings from all over the Shire, and beyond. Several groups of dwarves made a point of arranging their travels to arrive in time for the Free Fair ,and some said that upon a time even big folk came, although that had not been within living memory.

Frodo took a sip of his beer. “Who is standing for the new place, then?”

Borden turned aside to fill a couple more pots. “That’s just it. Nobody's come forward yet.” He grinned. “It’s got the worthies in a bit of a lather, I can tell you.”

At that moment there was the unmistakable tap of a wooden gavel and Olin Baker stood. “Alright. Everybody quiet down so we can get this meetin’ started.”

He was met with a chorus of, “You tell ‘em, Olin,” from the younger folk and, “Speak up, lad,” from some of the older members of the assembly.

Olin cleared his throat and started again. “I hereby call this here meeting to order.”

This time silence descended. “We all know why we’re here but just to keep it all legal I’ll spell it out. The Free Fair is coming up in a couple of months, and we’re here to pick the two folk who will represent Hobbiton in the voting for Mayer.”

“And shirrifs,” Daddy Twofoot pointed out.

“And shirrifs,” Olin concurred. “Not that we’ve much need for them away from the borders as we are.”

“Aye. Most come from the border villages, where they’re needed,” Adelard Took observed, somewhat redundantly.

Olin drew himself up. “Can anyone with somethin' to say please raise their hand before speaking, or we’ll all be talkin' at once and never get through the business.”

There were chuckles all around and one of Frodo's neighbours at the bar softly observed, “Aye. Some of us have homes we’d like to get to afore midnight.”

Olin frowned at the mutterer and continued. “First we've got to elect the voters. I’ve got a nomination from Delbin Chub for Tom Cotton, of South Pasture farm. Do I have a seconder?” 

Mistress Chub raised a hand and Olin made a note on his paper. “Duly noted. Thank you, Rose.” He looked up. “Has anyone any objection to having Tom voting for us again this year?” He glanced about the room but nobody raised a hand. “Right, then. Lets have a show of hands. Who agrees Tom Cotton as one of Hobbiton’s voters at the Free Fair?”

Frodo raised his hand, along with almost everyone else in the packed pub. There were one or two who were a little late, but that was mainly because they had nodded off at some point and had to be nudged by their neighbours. Olin made a show of writing down Tom’s name on a fresh sheet of paper. “Thank you all. Tom will do for us again, then.” Everyone cheered and Tom stood to sketch a bow before being tugged back into his seat by his wife.

Olin tapped his gavel on the table once more. “Now we come to the hard bit. Hobbiton, being such a big village, we get two votes but we’ve had no more offers. Does anyone want to stand up now? T'would be a shame if we weren’t represented proper.” He let his gaze roam the room but everybody just fidgeted and looked away.

Finally, Hamfast Gamgee raised his hand. The surprise was very clear in Olin’s voice. “Are you volunteering, Mister Gamgee?”

“Bless you, no. I’m too old now to be galavantin’ off to Michel Delvin’. But it seems to me that the answer is simple enough. Mister Bilbo Baggins used to vote for us and here’s his heir, Mister Frodo. Why not send him? He’s mighty book learned is our Mister Frodo, and he’s got a good sensible head on his shoulders.”

All eyes now turned to Frodo, who could feel himself colouring. “I’m flattered, Mister Gamgee, but I think I’m still a bit young for such a responsibility. What about Doctor Brockleby?”

Bill Brockleby almost choked on his cider. “No, indeed. I’m with Hamfast. I hope to retire within the next couple of years and have no yearnings to travel so far.”

Charlie Proudfoot spoke up from a corner. “A sensible head ye say? Tis to be hoped he’s more sense than his uncle had.” Ted Sandyman had no vote in Hobbiton affairs, but he had a few friends in the village, and Charlie was known to be one of them. 

If he were honest with himself, this was one of the rare occasions on which Frodo was almost glad that Charlie had spoken up, for he truly did not think he was ready for such responsibility. He was very quick to reply, therefore. “Thank you for the compliment, Hamfast, but I'm sure there will be somebody better qualified.”

Olin glared at Charlie, as people began to whisper, rapping the gavel more forcibly this time. “I’ll not say this again. Hands up if you got somethin' to say. As Mister Baggins has declined the nomination, does anyone else want to offer themselves or suggest another for the post?” A hand went up. “The chair recognises Oakley Brockbank,” Olin intoned, with such formality that it engendered several hoots of laughter.

The elderly Oakley pushed himself up, with some help from his son, Nedes, his gaze going straight to Frodo. “Charlie asks if Mister Frodo here has more sense than his uncle, and I say that he has.” When Frodo made to interrupt Oakley spoke over him. “No sir. Tis all to the good that ye don’t have too high an opinion of yerself. I reckon somebody too full of himself won’t be thinkin’ about what’s best for others, which is what this job is all about, when all's said and done. And since his uncle Bilbo left I’ve heard nothin’ but good about him. He’ll not blow his own horn, ‘cause that’s not his way, but I know for a fact that there’s lots of folks here that’s been on the receivin’ end of his good nature.” Here several heads nodded agreement, and Frodo suddenly found the room too warm for his liking. “If that ain’t a sign of a good heart and a sensible head I don’t know what is. I’d like to see ye have a go at the job, Mister Baggins,” he glowered at Charlie, “And I see none better here to do it.”

Having said his piece, Oakley was helped back into his chair by Nedes and Bartimus. Now a good deal of approving mutters were added to the nods, and Frodo set down his pot so that he could wipe damp palms on his breeches. He scanned the room, hoping that another hand would be raised and, instead, found a sea of expectant faces.

Olin cleared his throat. “Anyone else got somethin' to say?”

From his place at his father's side, Bartimus murmured up at Frodo’s elbow. “Come on, Frodo. If you really decide it’s not for you, you don’t have to stand next time.”

“I don’t want to let anyone down, Barti.”

“I don’t think you’d know how.”

Frodo sighed. “Alright, Mister Baker. You have my name, but you may not get enough votes. Then what will we do?”

Barti grinned and punched him in the arm. “We’ll take that risk. I formally nominate Frodo Baggins.”

Hamfast Gamgee shouted, “I second!” and Olin licked his pencil before duly noting him.

Olin scanned the room again. “For the last time of askin'. Does anyone else want to stand for the position?”

“Oh, get on with it!” Rose Chub called, to a laughing chorus of, “Here, here!”

Olin banged his gavel so hard that several pots on the table trembled. “Order! All those in favour of Frodo Baggins as Hobbiton’s second voter at the Free Fair, please raise a hand.” Whilst there were less hands raised than had been for Tom, the numbers were clear enough that Olin did not ask for a count of the dissenters. “I hereby declare that Mister Frodo Baggins has the nomination. Thank you, young sir.”

Frodo took a deep swallow of his beer, as Olin moved on to the business of nominations for shirrifs, and the rest of the evening passed in a blur. 

So it was, that a few weeks later Sam and Frodo stood in Bag End's kitchen. “Goodness, Sam! What have you got in there? It’s a long walk to Michel Delving, you know, and that pack will get heavier with every step.”

Sam studied the enormous bundle at his feet and shrugged. “I hear there’s not many places to buy food on the East Road, so I’ve brought enough for the journey.”

“You certainly have. There's only the two of us, you know. You do realise that we’ll be passing through Waymoot? I sent a message ahead, booking a room for the night at the Frog and Bucket. They don’t serve food, but for the Lithe Fair they usually allow food sellers to set up booths in their yard and all along the main street.” Frodo clapped his companion on the back. “We won’t starve. Don’t worry. Why don’t you go through that pack and take out anything we won’t need? It really does look awfully heavy.”

Sam was none too happy but returned to Number Three. He was gone for so long that Frodo was about to go after him. Even then, despite Sam’s protestations to the contrary, it did not look as though much of anything had been removed.

Making their way down the hill and over the river, they greeted one or two others of Hobbiton’s more adventurous folk, who had decided to come along. Whether for the fair itself or to see how young Mr Baggins acquitted himself, Frodo did not wish to consider too closely. Tom and Lilly Cotton joined them at the market square. 

“Morning, Mister Baggins, Sam,” Tom nodded as they met then grinned at Frodo. “You ready for the off then, young Mister Baggins?”

“Good morning Farmer Cotton, Mistress Cotton,” Frodo replied with a grimace. “I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Lilly patted his back. “Don’t you go worritin', Mister Baggins. The votin’s easy enough and if ye’ve any questions my Tom will help out. We’ve been doin’ this for years now. I keep tellin’ Tom he’s done his share but he keeps puttin’ his name forward.”

Tom shrugged. “We’d be goin’ to the Fair anyhow. Tis a good chance to see new stock. White Downs ewes are some of the best in the Shire, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.” Sam replied, hitching the pack higher on his back. “It looks good weather for walkin’ at least.”

Both Cottons carried packs but Frodo noted that neither were as bulky as Sam’s. “Are you not bringing family with you this time? I remember young Rose enjoying herself at the last fair.”

“She’s stayin’ home this year,” Lilly replied, her eyes twinkling as she added, “She’s a tween and she’s cast her eye on Delbin Chub of late. Our Rose thinks she’ll get more canoodlin' time while we’re away.”

Tom chuckled. “Only I’ve told her brother, Young Tom, to find her plenty to do.”

Lilly joined his laughter. “She’s probably wishin’ already that she’d come with us.”

The four strolled through Hobbiton and on toward Bywater, talking of crops and neighbours, past fairs, and weather. This was Sam’s first Lithe Fair so he listened avidly to all. By midday they had reached Bywater, stopping in at the Green Dragon for a bite to eat, and by the time they left their small group was swollen by a few more. Unfortunately, Frodo’s mood dampened a little when he spotted Ted Sandyman, along with his son, Orton. He supposed Ted’s poor, long-suffering wife, would be staying home to look after Ted’s ailing father, Ryle.

When Ted saw Frodo he scowled and, while everyone else exchanged greetings, he and Orton spoke only with others from Bywater. Frodo was rather touched when, after a couple of hours walking, he noted that Sam made a point of always placing himself between his master and Ted. He leaned in to whisper, “It’s alright, Sam. I doubt Ted Sandyman is going to leap upon me in front of all these people.”

Sam looked unconvinced and maintained his place to Frodo’s right. “It don’t do no harm to be careful, Mister Frodo. My fryin’ pan is close to hand and I'll fetch him one if he tries anythin’.”

Frodo disliked violence as a means to settle arguments, but the image of Sam setting about himself with a frying pan had him chuckling.

They reached the junction with the Great East Road by mid-afternoon. Whilst it could not be called crowded, there were certainly more people and carts than usual, and all were travelling west. They had been walking for only half an hour when Frodo heard his name being called, and he clambered to the higher vantage point of a grass verge to survey the growing numbers of people. A hand waved and Frodo ran forward to throw himself into the ample embrace of a rather rotund hobbit of about his own age. “Freddy! I didn’t know you were coming!” 

The larger lad released him and grinned widely. “I was the only one who wanted to come from Budgeford, so here I am. I’m not old enough to vote myself so I’m carrying Da’s marker and a witnessed note. Da had to stay home to look after the cows. I was hoping you and I would meet up, but wasn’t sure when you would be setting out.” His grin grew even wider. “I heard you'd been pressed into voting.”

Frodo led him back to the verge and a curious Sam Gamgee. “Sam Gamgee, let me introduce Fredegar Bolger, Freddy to his friends. Freddy, this is Samwise Gamgee, but everyone calls him Sam.”

Sam nodded, surprised when Freddy offered his hand. “I’ve come to do for Mister Frodo, sir.”

Freddy continued to hold out his hand, until Sam was obliged to shake it or appear rude. Frodo clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Sam here is my friend, but I can’t get him to drop the, ‘Mister’. In truth, I’ve given up trying.” He winked. “For the moment.”

“It’s good to meet you, Sam. You can call me Freddy.”

“Thank you, Mister Freddy.”

Freddy laughed. “So that’s the way of it. Alright. Come along Mister Frodo. If we don’t get a move on we won’t get a bed at the Frog and Bucket in Waymoot.” Frodo led them back into the growing crowd and it did not take long to catch up with the Cottons, where more introductions were made.

At Waymoot the Cottons parted company, for they had agreed to stay with relatives further down the road. They offered hospitality but Frodo had already booked a room for himself and Sam, and the landlord declared it little trouble to bring in a truckle bed for Freddy, if they were willing to share the room. After washing off the dust of the road, the three set out to sample the food and drink on offer. There were accents from all across the Shire and Frodo enjoyed informing the fascinated Sam which villages they came from. There were even folk from Buckland, although they had no vote in the Mayoral election and appointed their own shirrifs. 

Indeed, many of those attending were not there to vote, but rather for the fun of it. There were even several groups of dwarves. Sam noted that whilst dwarves were not uncommon in the Shire, they were still given a wide berth by some. They had obviously come to trade, with large covered wagons, and Sam was eager to discover what they sold, for none were of the same group that regularly attended Hobbiton market.

There were booths set up all along Waymeet’s main street, and an hour later three very replete hobbits ambled into the Frog and Bucket’s tap-room. They found all the tables taken and there was barely room to even stand, but Freddy declared himself in need of a good beer to wash down his supper and, being the burliest of the group, nominated himself to fight through to the bar to fetch drinks.

Frodo spotted Orton and his father, holding forth at length to an eager audience in one corner of the room, and it disturbed him to see Ted gesture in his direction once or twice, curious faces turning to stare. Frodo looked away, suspecting that whatever the Bywater miller was saying, it was probably not complementary. Still, he mused, there was nothing he could do about it. There was no law against talking, after all, and as most hobbits enjoyed a good gossip, that was just as well. Still, the event troubled Frodo well into the night, while his two friends lay snoring softly.

The next day arrived, bright and clear again. More folk must have arrived during the night, for it was a much bigger party that turned off the East Road, north along the road to Michel Delving. Frodo lost all hope of rediscovering the Cottons in such a crowd. Some of the food sellers stayed behind to cater for stragglers, while others packed their wares on wagons and carts, and trundled ahead to set up at the Fairground. They kicked up a great deal of dust in their passage, so by the time Frodo, Sam and Freddy arrived in Michel Delving, late in the afternoon, Freddy declared himself more than ready for a pint and a bath, not necessarily in that order. 

As at Waymoot, Frodo had reserved a room, this time at an inn that he and Bilbo had frequented before, the Pony and Pickle. The landlord, Ralf Greenbank, and his wife, Peony, greeted him warmly, and it was only a matter of minutes before a truckle bed was wheeled in once more, to accommodate Freddy. Ralf would hear nothing of receiving extra money for the bed, from such a good customer as Mister Baggins. 

The trio had just settled down to eat when Sam nudged his master, nodding toward the bar, where voices were rising. The other patrons withdrew, leaving a thunderous Ted Sandyman and an implacable Ralf Greenbank at the centre of a large clearing. Ted was stabbing his finger in the centre of Ralf’s barrel chest, to emphasise each word. “I’m one of the voters. You should be keepin’ your rooms clear for us.”

Ralf grabbed Ted’s wrist and Frodo noted the miller wince. “I have, but I aint got rooms for all. That’s why some folk wrote ahead. Last I heard, you could write, Ted Sandyman.”

Ted's colour deepened. “Aye. And we know who else can write.” This was not from Ted, but Frodo recognised the belligerent looking hobbit at Ted’s side as one of those who had been in close conference with Ted and Orton in Waymoot. All eyes followed the newcomer’s gaze to Frodo Baggins. “Seems to me that Mister Frodo Baggins has made sure he has a bed. Even his friends and servants have beds, and they don’t have a vote.”

The tension in the room became palpable and Frodo climbed slowly to his feet. “I have a room with a bed. That is true. My friends are sharing the room, however. They are not depriving you in any way, Ted Sandyman.”

“Ye’ve still got a room when we aint,” another voice shouted. “I got a vote too. If he gets a bed I should have one.”

Frodo sighed. “You want a room, Ted? You can have my room. My friends and I will sleep under the stars. Just give us time to collect our belongings and the room and beds are yours.” 

“Help ‘em with their stuff, lads,” was Ted's gleeful exhortation as he waved his two cohorts forward. 

It was Ralf who stepped in front of them, with Peony, wielding a broom beside him. “Oh, no you wont, Ted Sandyman. Mister Baggins, if ye want that room it's still yours. If not, I’ll watch these while ye get yer things.”

Freddy and Sam looked to their companion for a lead and Frodo motioned them to the back of the inn. “Go and collect our things. I don’t want to be responsible for any damage done to Ralf and Peony’s home.”

From the bar Ted Sandyman jeered. “Mr high-and-mighty-Baggins’. Yer all as mad as a box of frogs. Yer not even fit to vote, and just you watch, I’ll make sure all knows it.”

When Sam and Freddy would have turned about to give the jeerer's what for, Frodo held them back, pushing them gently toward their room instead. When they returned, carrying their baggage, Frodo joined them. “We’re leaving now Ted. Ralf, Peony, I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged into this silliness and I hope that when we leave things will return to normal.”

“Tis not your fault, sir, and yer welcome in the Pony and Pickle any time yer passin’,” Peony called as they left. “With a free supper thrown in,” Ralf added. Frodo was quite touched when he later discovered that Ralf never did let Ted have the room, declaring that it must be cleaned again before it could be let out to any customers, and he and Peony were too busy dealing with food and drink to get around to it. 

Back on the road, Frodo looked about them. “Wait here,” he instructed as he threaded the still growing crowds. He approached a large covered wagon, surrounded by four burly dwarves. “Frodo, son of Drogo Baggins, at your service, masters.” He bowed low. 

After a wary exchange of glances the leader bowed in return. “Galby, o' the line of Farin, at yer service, young sir. Would ye, by any chance, be connected with the Mister Bilbo Baggins, who got himself caught up in that wee bit o' bother over the Arkenstone?”

Frodo grinned. “Bilbo is my uncle.”

“Well now, tis a wee world after all. What service can I be to ye?”

“My two companions and I are here for the fair. Unfortunately, there was some unpleasantness at the inn where we had arranged accommodation, and we find ourselves without a roof or even bedrolls. I was wondering if you could oblige us with a seat at your fire and a safe place to sleep, with, perhaps, a blanket to share. We can pay for any inconvenience.”

There was another exchange of glances between the dwarves and then Galby bowed again. “As kin o' Bilbo Baggins yer counted as dwarf friend and verra welcome. We’ve food enough fer a dozen hobbits and blankets to spare fer all.” He held up a hand when Frodo began to rummage in his purse. “Nay, laddie, yer coin’s nay good here. We’ll not take payment from kin o' Bilbo. T’will be an honour to break bread wi ye.”

“Thank you very much.” Frodo waved over his wide-eyed companions. “Galby here says we can join them tonight.”

“I hope ya dinna mind a wee bit o' snorin', lads. Mabin, here, sounds like a sty full o' pigs,” Galby declared through a much plaited and decorated white beard.

The dwarf who fell into uproarious laughter turned out to be said Mabin. The remaining two introduced themselves as Toldi and Setic. Frodo, Sam and Fredegar were helped into the wagon, with their baggage and, despite Frodo advising the dwarves that they had already eaten, they were invited to share a second supper. Of course, as hobbits, he and his friends did not refuse.

They actually spent a rather comfortable night, kept dry from the morning dew by thick ground-sheets, a beautiful canvas awning and lots of blankets and cushions. It seemed Galby and his companions liked to travel in comfort.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning the hobbits were somewhat disappointed when their hosts insisted upon travelling the last few miles to the fair grounds, before having breakfast. They were more than willing to assist in the cooking, therefore, once they did arrive. The dwarves were a merry group, come to the fair to trade in toys from Dale, and beautiful ribbons and lace from a land far to the east that they called Rhun. Sam handed over a plate. The dwarves were well provisioned at least, and Sam added of his own stores, so Frodo’s plate was piled with bacon, sausage, egg, tomato, mushrooms and a slab of fresh, crusty bread, thickly slathered with butter.

Frodo chewed on a juicy mushroom before asking, “How far have you travelled?”

“We’ve come from the Iron Hills. D’ye ken it?” Galby replied.

“I’ve seen it on maps. It’s to our east. That’s quite a way to travel for a simple hobbit fair.”

“Aye. Tis not a trip we do evra year, ye ken. But we cross from east to west and back, evra senyear. This fair makes it worth the while comin’ through the Shire.”

Frodo latched on to his comment. “Did you come by way of Erebor, then?”

“The king would have my head if I dinna.”

“Then perhaps you met my Uncle. He set out three years or more ago, intending to visit the Lonely Mountain once more.”

Galby’s bushy eyebrows climbed as his eyes widened. “Burglar Baggins returnin’ to Erebor?”

“Well, I don’t think, “burglar” is a title he wanted to keep beyond his adventure, but, yes. Did you see him?” Frodo responded with a laugh.

“Did I ken, I would have sought him out. But I dinna have the privilege.”

Frodo’s face fell, for surely Bilbo had plenty of time by now to reach his goal, even were he to fulfil his dream and revisit Rivendell and Mirkwood on the way. He didn’t like to think of something happening to his uncle. Had Bilbo died upon the road, or been set upon by ruffians? “He travelled with some of your kin from Erebor. Perhaps you know them. They were Lofar, Nar, Anar and Hannar.”

“I know Anar and Hannar. They’re my kin,” Toldi interjected. “They were home when we passed through, but they said nought about a hobbit.”

Noting the concern upon Frodo’s face, Galby patted his knee with one huge hand. “Tis sorry I am, laddie. The roads grow darker evra year. It may be that they sent ye word and tis gone astray.”

Frodo fell silent and Sam leaned closer in unspoken support. Fredegar, leaned in too. “Maybe he stayed with the elves,” he offered.

“Elves?” Galby shuddered. “I ken some o' my folk trade with elves, but I dinna. They’re not to be trusted. There’s few o' my kin would visit elves. If yer uncle wanted to go there tis likely that’s where he parted ways wi’ Lofar.”

Frodo grabbed hold of that hope. Perhaps Bilbo was being royally entertained by Master Elrond or King Thranduil. “He would love to visit the elves. He was…is fascinated by the tales of their past.”

Galby sniffed. “Aye, well. Maybe he dinna ken all their past. At least these days they stay in their own lands and keep their wee pointy noses and ears out o' the affairs of others. It was nay always so.”

Mabin interrupted. “They’re setting up the register, Mister Baggins.” Frodo looked across the field, where a group of shirrifs were setting out tables and large heavy books. Some hobbits were already beginning to line up, no doubt hoping to get business out of the way early, so that they could enjoy the fair, with its ready supply of food and drink, to the full.

Frodo looked down at his plate. “I think I’ll finish my breakfast first. If I know hobbits, our shirrifs will still be sorting themselves out in an hour’s time. Besides, the voting won’t take place until midday.”

His prediction was correct, and by the time he joined the line it snaked half way around the fairgrounds. As he drew nearer the tables he noted Ted Sandyman ahead and experienced a moment's disquiet when Ted pointed to something in the register, and then engaged one of the shirrifs in intense conversation. However, when Ted moved off a few minutes later, Frodo put it to the back of his mind. No doubt Mister Sandyman had perceived some slight in the arrangement of names, or the colour of ink used.

“Place of residence.” Frodo stepped up to the table some time later. “Hobbiton. I am Frodo Baggins.”

“Now just wait a minute, Mister Baggins. I didn’t ask for your name yet. We’ve got to do this proper,” the shirrif asserted with some affront. His finger traced down the page until it landed upon “Hobbiton”. Satisfied, he looked up again. “And your name please, Mister Baggins?”

Frodo bit back a grin. “It’s Baggins, Frodo Baggins.”

The shirrif picked up his pencil, and was about to make a mark by Frodo’s name when one of the other shirrif’s stopped him. “Just a minute, Adgar. We’ve had word that this fella's a bit suspect.” Frodo found himself being studied closely by the shirrif who had earlier been speaking to Ted Sandyman. His heart leapt into this throat. “Come with us please, sir.” Frodo was mortified to be led away rather firmly, by two shirrifs, while a crowd of folk looked on in open curiosity.

Frodo was taken to a small tent, set up in the corner of the field specifically for shirrif business. That business usually consisted only of the collection and return of lost faunts, or the safe keeping of tweens who had imbibed too much cider. Frodo was grateful that neither were in evidence at present as he sat alone upon a stool. The two shirrifs who had led him there departed with not a word, despite Frodo’s entreaties that they tell him what the problem was. Of course, he knew who the problem was…Ted Sandyman, but not what it was. He jumped to his feet as the tent flap opened to admit a large group of hobbits, led by Penley Whitfoot, the incumbent mayor.

Penley planted himself in the centre of the space, the others ranged behind him. “Sit down, please, Master Frodo.”

Frodo decided that a little reminder of his maturity was in order. “It’s Mister Baggins now, Mayor Whitfoot.”

Penley grinned. “Well, congratulations! I was at your uncle’s party and had clean forgotten that it was your coming of age as well. How are you?”

A throat cleared at the rear and Penley turned to frown at the assembly of shirrifs and other hobbits crowded behind him. “It costs nothing to be polite,” he quipped, before returning to smile at Frodo.

For his part, Frodo was finding it very hard to be polite. “How am I? I was doing very well, before being dragged off by the shirrifs.”

Penley evinced some surprise at this statement. “Dragged off? I should hope there was no dragging and I shall be having some stiff words if there was.”

Frodo repented his hot words at once. “No, indeed. Perhaps, 'dragged' is too strong, but I was certainly given no chance to object. The word was chosen in haste, and grew out of a perhaps misplaced sense of injustice. I apologise. The shirrifs were polite at all times. But I am rather concerned as to why I am brought before the Mayor. As far as I’m aware, I have broken no laws.”

“Well, it’s not a law, as such. You could say it was more a matter of principle,” Penley offered with an apologetic air.

“Oh, get on with it.” A sour-faced Ted Sandyman pushed to the front to point at Frodo. “He’s like his uncle. Mad as a box of frogs.”

When Frodo opened his mouth to protest, Penley waved him silent before turning to face the accuser. “Now then, Mister Sandyman. There’s no call for talk like that. Mister Baggins seems sane enough to me.”

“He’s been seen, trampin’ about the Shire in the middle of the night. And he says he talks to elves. Elves!” Ted announced with a derisory hoot.

Penley returned his gaze to Frodo. “I don’t see that taking a walk in the dark is any sign of madness. If it were, every inn in the Shire would have to close at midday come winter, and never a courting couple would get to marrying. As for saying that you talk to elves … that could be considered a bit odd, I grant you.”

At that moment there was a disturbance at the rear of the tent and it was with a sense of relief that Frodo heard Tom Cotton’s voice. “Let me through, I tell ye! I’m a voter from Hobbiton too.” At a signal from Mayor Whitfoot the crowd parted and both Tom and his wife, Lily, stepped forward. 

Lily offered Frodo a reassuring smile as her husband spoke. “Mister Baggins was chosen by the folk of Hobbiton to vote for them. I know Frodo personally and he’s no madder than anyone else in this place.” He paused to shoot an angry look at Ted. “If there’s anyone not in his full mind ‘tis Ted.” 

Ted squared up to Tom, and Frodo thought they were about to exchange blows, but one of the shirrifs stepped between, forcing Ted to back down.

Penley looked from Ted to Frodo. “It seems to me that maybe this is just a village feud.”

“I’ll not deny there’s bad blood between the Baggins and Sandyman family,” Ted announced. “But that don’t make him any more fit to speak for sane hobbit folk.”

“Oh hush, Ted.” Frodo would later swear that he could have he heard a blade of grass bend, the silence was so absolute. All eyes flew to the speaker and Penley folded his arms, his voice taking on it’s best Mayoral tone. “It is the decision of this Mayor, that Mister Frodo Baggins is sane enough to represent his village, in the voting for the shirrif and mayoral elections.”

Ted began to protest but Penley held up a hand. “That’s an end to it Ted, and if you don’t like it you’ll have your opportunity to vote me out of office this very afternoon. Now I, for one, am ready for elevenses. I understand they’re serving a very good bacon sandwich here.” With those words Penley swept out, taking the shirrifs with him. The rest of the onlookers followed, no doubt enticed by mention of bacon. Soon there were only Frodo and the Cottons left, Ted Sandyman having melted away with the crowd.

Mrs Cotton stepped up to rub Frodo’s arms. “Are you alright, Frodo? We came as soon as Sam told us you’d been taken off.”

Frodo let out a relieved breath. “I am now. Thank you Lily, Farmer Cotton. I dread to think what would have happened had you not intervened.”

“Think nothin’ of it.” Tom clapped Frodo on the back as he led him from the tent. “We can’t have Hobbiton a vote short at the elections, now, can we? Although, if anyone asks, I'd keep that bit about the elves under yer cap.”

The rest of the day was a distinct improvement upon its start. Frodo, Sam, and Fredegar strolled around the various booths, sampling many foods, and examining the wares for sale. Most were items available anywhere in the Shire but Sam spent some time examining boots from The Marish, much to Frodo and Freddy’s amusement. Both had been fostered at Brandy Hall and encountered the items before.

“But, how do you know they’ll fit? My feet are bigger than Mister Frodo’s,” Sam asked. 

Frodo grinned. “Most hobbits have them made specifically. They make these to standard sizes and, if they’re too big, you just wear an extra pair of socks.”

Sam gave a perplexed blink. “What's socks?”

Fredegar pointed to the other end of the table, where a large array of brightly coloured knitted tubes were on display. They all had an intricately fashioned right angle, knitted at the middle, and Frodo had to slip his hand and arm into one to show how they fitted the shape of a foot. Then he surprised Sam by purchasing a couple of pairs.

“I didn’t know you had any boots, Mister Frodo.”

“I have a pair somewhere, although I doubt they’d still fit. But socks are lovely and warm for walking about indoors in winter. Perhaps your Da would like a pair. He feels the chill in his toes nowadays.”

Sam jumped back, as though bitten. “I don’t reckon my old gaffer would take too kindly to somethin’ so, well, outlandish. Beggin’ your pardon.”

Fredegar laughed as Frodo dropped the ‘outlandish’ garments into his pack. About to move on to the next booth, which appeared to be selling woolly mittens, they were interrupted by the loud blowing of a horn. 

“There’s the signal for voting,” Fredegar announced, and both he and Frodo began fishing in breeches pockets, to retrieve their bag of voting counters. 

“How’s the votin’ done?” Sam asked, intrigued by the counters. “I’ve never seen it before.” He followed his companions as they joined a long line forming to one side of the field.

“Can you see all those jars on the tables? Each one has a label with the names of those put forward for shirrifs, and the candidates for Mayor,” Frodo explained.

“This black counter is for the Mayor. There’s only Penley and Will Whitfoot, and old Delbin Boffin, standing. I suspect Will is the one to win. Penley’s made it clear he wants to stand down and nobody is going to vote for Delbin,” Fredegar announced.

“Why not?”

Frodo grinned. “If Ted Sandyman thought I was as mad as a box of frogs, Delbin is a whole pond full. I think they only allowed him to stand so that it doesn’t look like a family business, when Will takes the job from his father.”

“So the white counters are for the shirrif’s?”

“That’s right, Sam. We can only choose a fixed number and we just drop a counter into the jar for each one we want.” Frodo smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid it’s a bit haphazard, as most people don’t know all the candidates personally. But as the shirrif’s don’t have much in the way of duties anyway, it’s not too much of a problem.”

As they talked they had drawn closer to the front and now one of the incumbent shirrifs beckoned Sam aside. It was not considered proper to unduly influence the voters. Moments later the trio reunited, and Fredegar proposed they have a snack and a half of ale, declaring that voting was hard work.

The rest of the day was spent browsing and eating, and they finished back at the dwarven wagon There, Sam spent two pennies on some ribbons for his sisters, pleased beyond measure when Galby added in two yards of fine white lace at no extra cost. The companions were invited to share supper with their new friends and to stay the night once more. 

At sundown the results of the elections were announced, and Will Whitfoot performed his first duty as new mayor, by lighting the bonfire at the centre of the field. Hobbits and dwarves, high-born and low, danced, and sang, and ate, and drank into the wee small hours. Most crawled into their blankets as the horizon was beginning to brighten with the dawn of mid year day. Some simply slept where they fell, too deep in their cups to care.

It was almost midday by the time Frodo began to cram all his purchases into his pack. “Will you be travelling on to the Blue Mountains or back to the Iron Hills? Only I see that you still have goods to trade, and Hobbiton market will be open in two days.” 

The dwarves were intent on their own packing, although there was a good deal less to stow away after the Free Fair. “We had nay decided. But we’ve a few bits left.” Dalby grinned. “Did ye fancy a ride back to Hobbiton, Mister Baggins?”

Sam pressed down upon the contents of his master’s pack as Frodo struggled with the drawstring and buckle. Frodo tugged, managing at last to pull it closed enough to fasten upon the very last hole. As full as it was, he was not looking forward to lugging it all the way back to Hobbiton. “Well, if you would be willing to do that, I am certain you will have customers eager for those ribbons at our little market, and I would be happy to offer you a good, home cooked meal, in payment. In fact there are beds aplenty in Bag End, if you fancy a feather bed and a proper roof over your head for the night.”

Galby grinned. “Did ye hear that, lads? Good food and a feather bed.”

Mabin stuck his head out from the back of the wagon. “And a chance to sell the last of our wares. I, for one, would not say ‘no’ to a feather mattress.”

“I’m with Mabin,” announced Toldi and Setic, as one.

“Well, Mister Baggins, it seems Hobbiton is gettin’ the opportunity to buy our ribbons and toys, and ye get some supper guests,” Galby declared. He hefted Frodo’s pack, as though it were a feather pillow, and tossed it into the back of the wagon “Hop in, little masters.”

Fredegar needed no persuading and even Sam was beginning to like these dwarves. Soon they were joining the throngs leaving the Free Fair. The wagon made better time than travelling on foot and they drove straight through Michel Delving, leaving many of the walkers far behind. Frodo spotted Ted and Orton Sandyman at one point and gave a cheery wave. In return, he received a brace of scowls that promised retribution at some future date. Upon reflection, that wave was not perhaps one of his better ideas.

That evening they sat about a campfire within a small copse of birch trees. Frodo lit his pipe, passing the glowing twig to Toldi, who used it to light his own. “We seem to have more and more dwarves travelling through the Shire of late,” Frodo observed, "And not all are coming to trade.”

“Aye. There’s been a deal o' messengers runnin’ back and forth of late. I know nothin’ of the doin’s o' Kings, ye ken, but there’s been rumours,” Galby declared in an ominous tone.

“What sort of rumours?” Fredegar asked with a shudder.

“Well, some o' my kin staggered into our halls in the Blue Mountains last year. They said they were attacked by trolls, and not yer usual trolls neither. These had strange weapons and were cunning enough to waylay a party of well armed dwarves.”

“Aye,” Toldi added. “And there’s talk of orcs multiplyin’ in the Mountains o' Moria. There’s been no word from Khazad-dum for some time. Some even think the colony may have been slain.”

“Enough, Toldi!” Galby growled. “We dinna know, fer sure, and tis nay wise to call down trouble where it's not wanted. There’s trouble enough about.”

To Frodo, it seemed that the bright world of adventure he had always assumed lay beyond the Shire’s borders was growing rather dark and frightening. His hand slipped, almost of its own volition, into his pocket to grasp Bilbo’s ring on it’s sturdy chain.

“That certainly sounds trouble enough,” Sam declared, with the lightness of one who considered such warnings had little to do with his own peaceful world.

“But it’s not all,” Toldi replied, quietly. “There’s news from lands to the south. The Rangers speak of the Dark Tower being rebuilt in Mordor.”

“What’s a Dark Tower?” Fredegar asked. Like Sam, he no doubt felt that such news held little import for him, but the catch in his voice showed even he was being drawn into the fears of their hosts. 

“And what’s a Ranger?” Sam added.

Galby flicked a pebble at Toldi’s chest. “Enough, now. Pay him no heed, little masters. Toldi’s always one to take a molehill and make a mountain of it. Tis all whispers and half tales and should nay be taken serious.” He turned to Setric. “Break out that whistle o' yours and give us a tune. This night’s grown too dark and I’ll not give our friends nightmares.”

The next day, Fredegar left them at the turn-off to Bywater, after promising Frodo that he would visit Bag End soon, and the wagon rolled to Hobbiton. At the bottom of Bagshot Row they unhitched the wagon, left the ponies stabled with Arty Sedgebury’s cow, then the group of dwarves and two hobbits trooped up the hill to Bag End.

Marigold Gamgee had already taken on her mother’s mantle, bringing provisions to Bag End, ready for Frodo’s return. It took only minutes for Sam to run down the hill to Arty, to collect fresh milk, and Bag End’s guests helped light the kitchen range and make up the spare beds themselves. Mabin earned a room to himself, on account of his snoring, and Galby, Toldi and Setic decided to share the big bedroom usually reserved for Gandalf the wizard. That way they only had to make up two beds, which suited everybody.

Within an hour, supper was on the table and it was a merry group that sat down to eat. Even Sam was persuaded to join them, although he kept leaping up to offer more bread, more cheese, a slice of ham, another ale…


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Frodo_Baggins_Of_Bag_End, who lost a long battle with her health three days ago and went to meet her saviour. Her hobbity fanfictions were what inspired me to begin writing and she is missed by many in the Lord of the Rings fanfic community.

Life at Bag End settled into a routine. So much so that Frodo began to experience, once more, the 'curse' of the Baggins itchy feet. In an attempt to scratch that itch he took to visiting family more frequently and, having improved his cooking skills, even considered inviting family and friends to visit him. So it was that one balmy evening, he was seated in the private parlour of Paladin and Eglantine Took, in Great Smials.

Eglantine passed him a cup of tea. “Are you absolutely certain that you want Pippin with you? He's quite a handful.”

Frodo grinned as he set the tea on a side table. The aforementioned Pippin had retired to his bed some hours earlier and his older sisters had just been in to kiss their parents goodnight. Now there were only the three adults, sitting around the empty summer hearth, with a low table of snacks between them.

“I am. I’m sure I’ll be able to entertain him for three weeks. Sam will help and we were thinking it could be fun to work off some energy by taking a few hikes.”

Paladin shook his head. “Just so long as you stay away from the borders. You and your hiking.”

Frodo cut himself a piece of cold pork pie, adding a spoonful of peach chutney to his plate. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him safe, and I like to walk.”

Aunt Eglantine surveyed him over the rim of her teacup. “I confess that for a while I wondered if you would pack up and follow your uncle, off into the wilds.”

Frodo offered a lopsided smile. “And I confess that there were a few times, in that first year after he left, that I felt like doing just that.”

“And now?” his Uncle Paladin enquired.

“Now I feel more settled. I think, had I left in that first year, I would be running away from something, and not toward.”

Eglantine set down her cup, nodding. “You were a wild one when you were Pip's age, but once you settled down with Bilbo, you showed your true colours. You turned into a kind tween, and you have added wisdom to that since you came of age. It can’t have been easy for you in Hobbiton, so far from family. I’m sorry we could not have done more, but I don’t worry for you any more.”

Frodo took a sip of his tea. “In truth, I don’t think there was anything more that you could have done. One thing I have learned is that being independent is something that can only be learned by doing, and everyone in Hobbiton has been very good, the people on Bagshot Row particularly.”

Paladin re-lit his pipe. “I was sorry to hear about the death of your neighbour the other year. I understand Bell Gamgee was a big help to you and Bilbo. Although I’m not sure of the wisdom of gifting Number Three to her family.” When Frodo's eyes widened Pal raised a brow. “Oh, don't ever think I don't hear everything that goes on outside Tookborough. Young May Gamgee is an unsuspecting font of information on the doings of Hobbiton folk.”

Frodo paused for a moment, surprised to discover that mention of Bell no longer brought the threat of tears. “Bell was as dear to me as family. As for Number Three; I live simply. The loss of its rent has not left me short of funds, especially after I came into the inheritance from my parents. Anyway, if I had kept the property I would have felt obliged to find extra work for Sam. With his gaffer’s arthritis they would have struggled to find the rent. Bell used to do all sorts of little jobs for people in the village, and with her death that money was no longer coming in. Even the little money Daisy used to make was lost, once she married and left home.” He hastened to add, “Not that she doesn't help out when she can.”

Eglantine smiled fondly. “You have grown into the perfect gentlehobbit, Frodo Baggins. It is always the place of those of us with much, to help out those who have little.”

Frodo coloured slightly. “I had some good teachers.” He cleared his throat and stood. “And I think now that I should find my bed. Tom Carter says he wants to set out early tomorrow and I would not wish to keep him waiting.” He held out a hand to Paladin. “No doubt you’ll be out and about on the farm by the time I leave, so I’ll say goodbye now, and thank you. I have enjoyed my visit and I promise to look after your son.”

Paladin shook his hand firmly. “I know you will, Frodo. It was a pleasure to have you, and you are always welcome in Great Smials.”

Eglantine shook her head when Frodo offered her his hand. “Oh no you don’t, Frodo Baggins. I shall be standing at the door to hug my son and his cousin on the morrow. You may be grown but I trust you’ll accept a hug from your Aunt as you leave.”

Frodo grinned. “I would love a hug from my Aunt Eglantine, on any and all occasions.”

Over the course of the next day Frodo had ample cause to remember his discussion with Pippin's parents.

“Beggin’ yer pardon for sayin’ this, but yon youngster could talk the hind leg off a side of beef.” Tom Carter glanced back, to where said youngster, Peregrin Took, had curled up and fallen asleep among the boxes and bags in the rear of the cart.

Frodo chuckled. “You’ve no need to beg. I think growing up with three older sisters has forced him to save up all his words for other company.”

Tom flicked a rein and his placid pony turned left onto the Bywater road. “Are you sure ye want him visitin' for so long? Three weeks, didn’t ye say?”

Now Frodo looked back fondly at his sleeping cousin, tucking a blanket closer under Pippin’s pointed chin. “I’m quite sure. Hobbiton folk are a friendly lot and Sam is in and out of Bag End most days, but it’s still a big smial for one hobbit. Sometimes it’s too quiet.”

Tom snorted softly. “Then ye’d best get started on findin’ a lass and fillin’ it with bairns of yer own, Mister Baggins. Whatever came of Miss May Gamgee? As I recall, ye were sweet on her upon a time.”

Frodo’s gaze grew distant. “I was. But, somehow, we just drifted apart. Maybe it’s because Great Smials is so far away. When I saw her this visit she introduced me to her new beau, Erling Overhill. He works in the stables there.”

“Aye. I’ve met him. He looks after my Farley when we spend a night at the Smials. Nice lad. She could do worse.”

“Better than Mad Baggins, eh?” Frodo returned with a mixture of amusement and sorrow.

“Now, Mister Frodo, I didn’t say that and it don’t do ye no good to take such names to yourself.”

“Are we there, yet?” came Pippin’s sleepy voice.

Frodo’s good humour returned at once. “No, but you have awakened just in time to stop at the Green Dragon for a bite to eat.”

“Ooh, good!”

Two weeks later, four days after Frodo’s birthday party, the young master of Bag End was beginning to reconsider his decision to entertain his fifteen year old cousin for three whole weeks. Frodo was checking the contents of Pippin’s pack one last time, to make sure that the lad had packed soap and a spare set of smalls, when his hand encountered yet another apple.

“Pip,” do you really need so many snacks? Sam and I will both be carrying food for the journey and we intend to stop off for supper at an inn tonight.” 

“They’re just to keep me going,” the youngster explained, as he hopped from foot to foot by the open kitchen door.

Frodo shook his head, repacking the apple with the handful of nuts, small parcel of biscuits, three other apples, bag of raisins, and small chunk of cheese that he had already unearthed from the depths of Pippin’s pack.

They were awaiting Sam’s arrival and, as Frodo watched his cousin jigging about in poorly suppressed excitement, he found himself uttering words he had heard Bell Gamgee say to her youngsters so many times. “Peregrin Took, if you need to visit the outhouse do it now. Once Sam arrives we shan’t wait for stragglers.” 

Peregrin rolled his eyes, although the statement did have the effect of making him stand still. “Honestly, Frodo! I’m not a faunt, you know.”

The timely arrival of Sam forestalled any reply. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sirs. Only Marigold insisted we take a few hard-boiled eggs and they wasn't quite done.”

Pippin eyed Sam’s pack, speculatively. “You did bring them, though?”

“Oh yes, Master Peregrin.” Sam shrugged his pack higher and cinched a strap. “There’s a full dozen. They’ll be cooled down nicely by the time we stop for lunch.”

Frodo shooed Pippin out of the door, locking it behind them. “Make yourself useful, Pip. Run down the hill to Number Three and give this key to Marigold. She already has the one to the front door.”

Once he returned Frodo led them across the garden and shared backyard for Bagshot Row. With a quick wave to Arty Sedgebury they stepped into the lane at the bottom of the hill and turned right to take the road posted to Little Delving and Needlehole.

Sam and Frodo had to moderate their steps to accommodate Pippin’s slightly shorter stride, for the lad still had a few years of growing to do, in both mind and body. Frustration at their pace was impossible, however, for he had a cheerful disposition that could brighten the rainiest of days.

Their lunch break was a little longer than Frodo would have liked, for Pippin kept requesting just one more egg. In the end it was Sam who curtailed Pippin’s eating by pointing out that too many eggs had been known to have an unfortunate effect on the bowels, adding sagely, that constipation was not comfortable when taking long walks. They arrived at the Crossroads Inn, in time for supper and spent a relatively comfortable night, before resuming their journey, bright and early the following day.

“So, where are we going, again?” Pippin asked as he kicked a small stone aside.

Frodo and Sam were no longer surprised by this question, for it was repeated at hourly intervals, liberally interspersed with, “Is it much farther?” or, “When can we eat?”

“We’re making for Bindbole Wood, so look out for the signpost for Needlehole on our right. We’ve just passed the one for Little Delving.” Frodo pointed back along the road that was now little more than a track.

Sam looked behind, a little wistfully. “I’ve never been this far north in the Shire, Mister Frodo. My Da says he came with Mister Bilbo once, but he didn’t stop for long. He said they had to sleep in a hay loft, ‘cause Needlehole don’t have an inn.” Sam’s tone made it clear that, in his eyes, a village that could not boast an inn, where a hobbit could get a good meal and a pint of ale, was no village at all.

Pippin’s eyes widened in alarm, as he came to a sudden stop. “Will we have to sleep in a hayloft too?”

Frodo gave a merry laugh. “No, Peregrin Took. We shall be sleeping outdoors, under the stars.”

His cousin skipped to catch up. “But what if it rains? And what will we do for supper?”

“Don’t you fret, Master Pippin. I’ve learned how to cook a good supper out-of-doors. And Mister Frodo is a dab hand at settin’ up a camp,” Sam assured him.

“Will we have enough food?”

Frodo let out a good natured sigh. “Yes, Pip. There’s a farm where Bilbo used to buy milk and bread and, if I know Sam, he’ll have that pack of his stuffed to the top with bacon, sausages and other good foods.”

“I have that, Mister Frodo. There’s even a few taters and some mushrooms in here,” Sam agreed, with some pride.

A few hours later three replete hobbits lay about the embers of a campfire, in a clearing within Bindbole Wood. Rolled in their blankets, they stared contentedly at the stars winking, one by one, into life above them. Pippin’s voice was already sleepy. “Do you ever wonder what stars are?”

It was Sam who replied. “Mister Bilbo said it was somethin’ to do with the elves, but I didn’t rightly understand.”

Frodo placed his hands behind his head. “I don’t know what they are, but I can tell you something of what the elves believe.” His companions settled back to listen, for Frodo had a pleasant speaking voice. “It is said that Middle earth and the heavens were sung into being by the Ainur, in concert with Illuvatar, the great creator of all. It was the task of Varda, who is also called Elbereth-Gilthoniel, to create and cast stars into the heavens. Her name means, Star Kindler. There were stars long before there was Sun or Moon, and stars were the first thing that the very first elves saw, when Illuvatar awakened them upon the shores of the Sea of Helcar, in the bay of Cuiviénen. Thus it is that elves revere starlight above all other lights.”

When Frodo reached the end of his explanation there was silence and he rolled his head to the side to find that Pippin was fast asleep. At the other side of their small fire Sam’s voice was almost drowned in sleep as well. “Cuivienen. I like that word. Star Kindler…” His words trailed away into a soft snore.

For some time Frodo lay, naming the constellations as they wheeled above him, but eventually, despite his best efforts to stay awake in hopes of hearing footsteps, he too fell asleep.

The next day they spent their time exploring. Bindbole wood covered the slopes of some low hills and contained no dwellings. There were signs that the people of the surrounding villages came to gather wood, for many of the trees had been coppiced, and they discovered the remnants of a couple of charcoal kilns with their attendant ramshackle shelters. It seemed otherwise untouched and empty, although Frodo insisted that elves sometimes travelled through on their way to the harbour on the western shore of Beleriand.

Sam proved very skilled in foraging and soon what food they had eaten the night before was replenished with assorted berries, roots, mushrooms and nuts. It began to grow colder as the afternoon wore on and, when they returned to the clearing where they had set up camp, it was to discover that the sky was clouding over.

“Maybe we should pack up our things and make for Needlehole,” Pippin suggested, with a frown at the sky. “Sleeping outside is all very well on a clear night, but I don’t fancy trying to sleep in a rainstorm.”

Sam only looked to his master for a decision and Frodo mentally reviewed their supplies. “I would like to spend at least one more night here, having come all this way. We may yet encounter elves.”

Pippin sighed. “Elves? Why do you want to see elves? From what I’ve heard, they don’t even talk our language. What’s the point of meeting them if you can’t speak with them?”

“Most of them can speak Westron, Pip. And if they don’t, I speak a little elvish. Bilbo was teaching me before he left the Shire and I’ve been reading some of his books.”

Sam’s eyes grew distant. “I’d like to see elves. They sound so…well…so magical. Mister Bilbo told me lots of tales about their great deeds.”

Pippin rolled his eyes. “But they’re not doing any of those great deeds now, are they? And unless one of those deeds is to hold back a rainstorm, I don’t see why you would want to speak to them cousin?”

Frodo’s face grew serious. “I spoke to some dwarves at the Free Fair and they mentioned some disquieting rumours from the outside world. I’d like to know whether the elves have heard them too.”

“Why should the outside world worry you?” Pippin asked with a shrug.

“Because sometimes the outside doesn’t stay outside, Pip.” Frodo snapped as he dropped his pack. Pippin’s face fell and Frodo was contrite at once, touching his shoulder, gently. “I’m sorry, Pip. I didn’t mean to be so short-tempered, but the more we talk about it, the more I’m convinced that I need to at least try to meet them. Sam, I think we packed the tarpaulin in your bag. We can stretch it between these four saplings and it will keep off the worst of any rain. Pip, you restart the fire. We need it for cooking and I suspect it will be colder tonight.”

He fished in his pocket for flint and steel, but as he drew them out a chain came with them. By some strange chance the chain parted and a fine gold ring flew off, rolling away into the undergrowth. “No!” Frodo chased after it at once, rummaging frantically among the tree roots and damp mulch of last year’s leaf-mould. For several, heart stopping seconds he thought it was lost, then a stray beam of light from the setting sun peeped between the tree boles to draw an answering golden glow. Frodo grabbed up the ring and breathed drew breath once more.

He turned around to find both Sam and Pippin standing, open-mouthed. Frodo suddenly realised how strange he must have seemed and made a production of re-attaching the clasp at the end of the chain to the ring, relieved that by the time he looked up again their mouths had closed. He gave what he hoped looked to be a nonchalant smile and shrugged as he tucked ring and chain back into his pocket. “Bilbo gave it to me. I don’t want to lose it.” Even as he tried to convince them, he was also trying to convince himself. Perhaps Gandalf had the right of it when he had told Frodo to put the ring away somewhere, but Bilbo had always carried it thus.

Pippin returned to collecting dry wood, but Frodo was very aware of Sam’s assessing gaze as the two of them worked to create the night’s shelter. 

The rain was at least polite enough to wait until after they had eaten their supper, then all three collected their gear and rolled into their blankets beneath the makeshift awning.

Sam sniffed the air. “I reckon it's set in til mornin’, Mister Frodo.”

“Wonderful. A cold soggy night ahead of us. Couldn’t we make a run for Needlehole. It’s not that far,” Pippin asked in a mournful tone. “Even that hay loft is beginning to sound good now.”

“Not while it’s dark, Pip. With no stars or moonlight there’s not enough light for safe walking. You’re likely to trip over a tree root and break your neck.” Frodo settled closer to his younger cousin. “If we all cuddle closer we’ll keep each other warm.” Sam took the hint and soon Pippin was sandwiched warmly between his elders and fast asleep.

Frodo was not so fortunate. The rain was driving in at his side of their shelter and his back was soon wet and cold. He could do nothing about it, however, so he set himself to endure. Sam and Pippin awoke just as the sky was beginning to brighten with the dawn. Frodo had slept not a wink but he tried not to let it show as he tried to stretch chilled back muscles. This expedition had been his idea, after all, but despite being awake all night he had seen or heard no sign of any elves. Elves had more sense than to be abroad in a downpour, he reflected ruefully as he helped shake out blankets. 

“I wonder when the rain stopped,” Pippin mused as he rolled his blankets.

“Not long before dawn,” Frodo replied as he helped Sam dismantle their shelter. 

Sam paused in his work. “Have you been awake all night?”

Frodo grimaced. “You’ve caught me out, Sam. I’m afraid I was. I think the best thing we can do now is pack up and walk into Needlehole. Hopefully, our friendly farmer’s wife will supply breakfast for a few coins.” He nodded to the sodden remnants of the previous night’s fire. “I doubt we’ll find much in the way of dry kindling to cook our own.”

Sam renewed his determined efforts to unpick knots swollen by the rain, muttering, “You should have woken me.”

Despite being cold to the bone Frodo laughed. “What ever for? There was no point all of us being awake and Pip here is still a growing lad. He needs his sleep.”

Only minutes later they were picking their way through the dripping trees. The land fell away to the west, draining into Rushock Bog, just to the south of Needlehole. “At least it’s not such a slog when we’re going downhill,” Pippin commented.

Ten minutes later he was regretting his words. Water dripped from the branches overhead, onto their heads and inside their collars. What ground not criss-crossed with tree roots was blanketed in slippery leaf-mould, and they had to splash through several rivulets of run-off, most of which were little more than a mud slurry. Their legs were soon coated with mud up to the knee, and Sam had saved Pippin from falling several times, before the sun had even cleared what horizon they could glimpse through the dense wood and cloud.

Frodo came to a sudden halt. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Pippin asked with some exasperation. “Whatever it is, I vote we postpone examining it until after breakfast.”

Sam had his head cocked. “I think so. A sort of cracking, creaking sound?”

Frodo nodded. “Hello? Now it’s turned to a rumble.” Suddenly he blinked and rubbed his eyes as the trees just behind Sam seemed to glide majestically down the slope. Then a small birch tree began to lean, followed by another, knocking the first sideways, toward Sam. “Sam! Look out!” 

But Sam did not know what to look out for. By the time he began to turn to look behind, his time had run out. To Frodo’s horror the small tree crashed down upon his friend and Sam was lost to sight below a pile of bronze-leaved branches.

Pippin watched in horror as a long procession of trees and shrubs slid away down the hill. When the land finally came to a halt he could only turn to his cousin. “What just happened?”

Frodo ran to the fallen tree. “Landslide. The rain must have weakened the slope.”

Pippin joined him as they began to push their way through branches to find some sign of Sam. “It’s lucky we weren’t a few yards to the right when it started.”

“I doubt Sam feels particularly lucky at present, Pip.” Frodo finally found one of Sam’s sturdy arms and he and his little cousin began bending and breaking branches until his face came into view.

Pippin grew pale and a tear tracked down his face. “Is he… is he dead?”

“Sam? Sam? Can you hear me,” Frodo called in some desperation. When Sam’s eyelids did not so much as flicker he reached in to lay fingers against his throat, relieved to discover a strong pulse. “No, Pip. He’s alive. Help me get more of these branches off him.”

The two worked frantically for several minutes until they could finally see all of their companion. The birch was young, and its slender trunk had missed Sam by a couple of feet. But the hapless hobbit was pinned by the legs beneath two strong branches and still showing no signs of consciousness. Frodo and Pippin dropped to their knees and tried to lift one of the branches free, but their efforts availed nothing.

Pippin swiped his tearful face with a sleeve and Frodo ran a muddy hand through his hair. “We can’t do this alone.” He took Pippin’s shoulders. “You need to fetch help, Pip.”

“But I don’t know the way,” the youngster sobbed.

Frodo met his eyes. “You just have to keep going downhill until you’re clear of the trees. Once there you will see the farm buildings in the distance. Look for the big green barn.”

The younger Pippin shook his head and Frodo took his shoulders. “Pip, you must do this. I have to stay here, in case Sam wakes up. I trust you, Pip. Do this for Sam.”

Pippin sniffed then gave a brisk nod. Before he scrambled to his feet Frodo gave him a quick, strong hug. “Be careful. We don’t want any more accidents.”

“I will. Don’t worry, Frodo. I’ll bring help,” and with those words he sprang off down the slope at a sure-footed speed that only the young can manage.

Frodo settled on the damp mulch, heedless of his own comfort, and lifted Sam’s head into his lap. “Hang on, Sam.” He looked about, surprised to find that the sun had still barely lightened the overcast sky, for it already felt like an age since they had set out.

He was beginning to rummage in his pack for a blanket when he felt a growing awareness that he was not alone and began to scan the trees. Surely Pippin had not even cleared the trees by now, but perhaps he had found someone foraging for mushrooms. It was not Pippin who coalesced from the shadows however.

“Do you need assistance, Master Hobbit?” The tall and slender figure was dressed in shades of green and grey, with a fall of long dark hair constrained by a simple leather fillet. 

Even as he looked, Frodo saw others appearing, and then he found a face he recognised from long ago travels with his uncle. “Gilas! Thank goodness! Please … my friend is trapped.”

The pale haired elf stepped up at once, signalling for others to join him. Their combined strength easily lifted the tree while others helped Frodo drag his friend free. Gilas motioned to one of the others and a dark-haired lady gracefully lowered herself to Sam’s side to run her hands along his limbs and torso. When she had finished she offered a reassuring smile to Frodo. 

“He hit his head but I sense no lasting damage there. He will have a headache when he awakens, but that is all.” She pointed to his left knee, which was beginning to swell beneath a selection of scratches. “He has some scratches that need cleaning and also some internal damage; what is most commonly called a twisted knee. I can treat those and they require only rest to mend well.” 

Frodo touched hand to heart as he bowed his head, remembering his manners at last. “Le vilui”.

The lady smiled. “It is the least I can do, in the face of such courtesy.” As she finished speaking another elf came forward with a small basin and cloths. The lady’s touch was tender and, when she had cleaned and salved the injuries, she wrapped Sam’s leg from ankle to thigh with several rolls of soft bandages. It was the work of only minutes in her capable hands. Once Sam was settled, his head still in Frodo’s lap, Gilas hunkered down at his side. “I had not thought to find you here without your uncle.”

“Bilbo no longer lives in the Shire. It's been many years since we met but I hoped to find you in these woods. I remembered that Bilbo often used to travel here and return with tales of elves,” Frodo explained as he stroked Sam’s brow absently.

“You took a chance. We do not take this route often and Bilbo used to write for details of our journey. As it happens, we had arranged to meet someone else in these woods.”

Frodo was crestfallen. “I did not know that. Thank goodness that you were here. I have sent Pippin for help but I do not know how soon he will return.”

One of the elves offered Frodo a small flask and he took a sip of the sweetest water he had ever tasted. “We will stay with you until your companion returns. But, did you have some specific reason to seek us out?”

“I met a group of dwarves at the Free Fair this summer and they told me of some disturbing rumours. I hoped to clarify them with you.”

Gilas seemed perfectly comfortable hunkered by his side, and Frodo noticed that, unlike himself, the elves shoes and legs were hardly marked by the mud. “What rumours are these?”

Frodo frowned. “They spoke of trolls and orcs multiplying. They said that they had even heard talk of a tower being rebuilt away in the south. It all sounded very dark to me.”

Gilas tilted his head to one side. “And why would such stories worry a hobbit, safe within the borders of the Shire?”

“That’s just it. Are our borders safe against such as those? We have no great armies. I’m not even sure that we have any weapons, other than the odd hunting bow.”

“I see.” Gilas gave a faint smile. “You need have no worries, Mister Baggins. Your borders are kept safe by more than your Bounders and Shirrifs.”

“Oh?”

Gilas arose. “I can say no more on the matter. It is not we, although we help where we can, as you and your uncle learned but a few years ago. Be assured that others watch your borders closely and no orcs or trolls will trouble you. As for the rest…little news travels now from the south, so I cannot answer your questions about a tower.”

Frodo got the distinct impression that Gilas knew more than he was willing to say, with regard to that tower, but at that moment he heard voices and large boots tramping through the woods. Sam, too, seemed to rouse. “Frodo?”

Before Frodo could thank them, Gilas touched a finger to his lips and the elves melted away into the trees, just as Sam opened his eyes and Pippin dashed into view. If Pippin saw the elves he made no sign, only gesticulating behind him to a tall figure, dressed in tattered and mud spattered robes and a large, pointed blue hat. Frodo’s heart lifted, “Gandalf! Beyond all hope!”

The wizard swept off his hat, hanging it with some nonchalance upon a nearby low hanging branch. “I don’t see why it is beyond hope. I told you to expect me when I was least expected, and here I am. Just as well, it seems. You seem to have developed the same skill for getting into trouble as your uncle,” he huffed as he bent to examine Sam, who’s eyes were as large as saucers by now.

Frodo decided that now was not the time to point out that any trouble his Uncle Bilbo had landed in was at Gandalf's instigation.

“I met Gandalf as I came out of the woods,” Pippin declared. “Well, not met exactly. He sort of, swept me off my feet.” Pippin’s words swept him off too. “I was running along, toward that green barn, when I was suddenly there I was, hanging in mid-air. Old Gandalf here had slipped the end of his staff beneath the hood of my cloak, and for a moment I thought I’d been picked up by one of Bilbo’s eagles. I started to struggle. I don’t want to be carried off by eagles, thank you very much. And then this voice shouts, ‘If you don’t stop struggling, Peregrin Took, your cloak will rip and your lady mother will have both our hides!’ She would, too. So I stopped and it turned out to be Gandalf.”

Gandalf was checking Sam’s bandages and now he looked from Frodo to the woods and back again. Reminded of Gilas’ urging for silence Frodo only nodded and Gandalf gave a conspiratorial wink. 

Now Sam murmured, “What happened, and how did Mr Gandalf get here?”

Pippin grinned. “I brought him. Or rather, he sort of brought me.” He looked from fallen tree to Sam, and then at the neatly bandaged leg. “Hello, what happened here. Frodo, did you manage to drag Sam free after all? That really was too bad of you when I was careening about in the semi-darkness, and getting accosted by wizards.”

Sam groaned, bringing a hand to his apparently aching head. Gandalf scowled. “Enough of your infernal chatter, lad. Let’s get Master Gamgee to my cart and home to a warm bed.” This apparently elderly man lifted a rather surprised Sam as though he were no more than a sack of feathers. “Bring my hat, if you please, Frodo.”

Sam leaned around Gandalf’s shoulder. “Mr Frodo, did we meet elves?”

Frodo smiled. “Why ever would you think that? I believe that bang on the head made you imagine things.”

By courtesy of Gandalf's cart, the following nightfall saw Sam tucked up in his own bed, being waited upon, hand and foot, by his sister. Doctor Brockleby was consulted and declared that he had never seen a better example of bandaging. Indeed, as he was considering retiring soon, would Mister Baggins consider taking over the post of doctor?

Frodo laughed nervously, saying only that it was amazing what a person could accomplish when put to the wall.

Le vilui (Sind.) = Thank you/You are kind


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The following morning Frodo and Gandalf sat in Bag End's cosy kitchen, as rain spattered loudly against the window panes. From his seat Frodo could see a fitful wind tugging curling leaves from the pear tree. Pippin was visiting Sam, after filled himself to bursting point with bacon, eggs, mushrooms, sausage and fried bread. Frodo suspected that Marigold would be offering another breakfast at Number Three and that Pippin would not be refusing it.

“Well, Mister Baggins. What have you been doing with yourself since my last visit?” Gandalf accepted the proffered spill to light his pipe.

Frodo shrugged. “Not a great deal. Our little excursion to Bindbole Wood was my first real outing this year...other than to visit family.”

Gandalf narrowed his eyes. “Indeed. You sound a little disappointed about that. I thought you loved your Shire.”

“Oh, I do!” his host assured him. “It's just that sometimes I remember Bilbo's tales of snow capped mountains and deep forests.” He shifted his feet restlessly.

“Ahh. And your feet begin to itch.”

“They do,” Frodo replied with a grin.

“Well, I do not advise travelling without a proper guide if you intend to go beyond your borders.”

“No, indeed. I would not dream of it, particularly in light of what I have heard from people passing through our lands.” Frodo set aside his own pipe and replenished his guest's tea.

“Yes. You mentioned that yesterday. What, exactly, have you heard that has you so worried?”

“Actually, nothing exact at all, which makes if worse. Some of the dwarves I have met spoke of dangers beyond the Shire and someone mentioned a dark tower, but as soon as I asked for more details they became very close mouthed. It is all very frustrating.”

Gandalf's bushy brows lifted. “The dark tower? The rumours have spread so far? Interesting.” His words trailed away as grey eyes grew distant.

Frodo huffed. “I suppose I would find it interesting too, if I knew what it referred to.”

“Oh, now, Frodo, do not take on so. The world is a very large place and any trouble away to the south is not something that should disturb the Shire unduly. There are many groups of doughty people between here and there.”

Frodo sighed. “That is good to hear, but they also spoke of increased danger, even this far north.”

Gandalf sipped his tea. “Nothing too worrying. As is often the case, when troubles arise, some folk become displaced. Sometimes those folk are not of the most savoury kind, but their numbers are not great I assure you.”

Gandalf's reassurances only deepened Frodo's frustration. “You are not going to tell me more, are you?”

The wizard smiled. “I hear that the Shire has a new mayor.”

And that, was the end of that. Over the next few days Frodo made several abortive attempts to pump Gandalf for more details, but all he ever got were reassurances that the Shire was not in any danger...tempered by warnings not to travel beyond the borders. Neither would he say aught of those who purportedly protected the Shire. However, by the time Gandalf slipped away into the dusk a few days later, the wily wizard had managed to wheedle a great deal of information on the doings of the Shire. 

Pippin confided to Sam that the old wizard was quite boring, for he did not bring any fireworks and refused to perform any feats of magic, and it was well that he had gone again, for he seemed to put Frodo into a dark mood. 

Pippin had returned to Great Smials, and Gandalf's disappointing visit had almost faded from memory by the time Frodo ran into Bartimus one afternoon at market, one fine spring day.

“Have you seen them yet?” his friend asked as they strolled through the bustle.

“Seen who?” Frodo leaned in to test the firmness of a lettuce. “May I have this, please, Mistress Cornberry?”

“The new doctor and his family. They’ve moved in next door.”

Frodo exchanged a three copper pennies for the tomatoes. “What? Dandelion Clocks. The old Brockhouse cottage? I thought you and Daisy had your eyes on that place.”

Bartimus grimaced. “We did, only Doctor Brockhouse said that they offered over the asking price.”

“I’m sorry, Barti. So, what are they like?” 

A sudden commotion postponed his friend's reply and the pair were almost crushed as the market day crowd parted to allow passage of a large pony and cart, the driver showing little regard for life or limb of the pedestrians. Frodo was hardly surprised to note that it was Orton Sandyman on the driving board and he called up in some heat, “Have a care, Orton!”

Orton’s only reply was a malicious grin as he flicked a whip above his pony’s back and the poor animal forged forward through the cursing crowds. Bartimus frowned. “One day he’s going to run someone down, the way he drives.”

As normality returned, Bartimus nudged Frodo’s shoulder. “There’s Mistress Rosemary Proudfoot. The new doctor’s wife.”

Frodo followed his gaze to discover a lady with about as much dress sense as his aunt Petunia. Indeed, Frodo considered, he would even go so far as to describe her as having far less. At the same time an inner voice laughed that the older Frodo Baggins was so keenly aware of such matters. His younger self would not have even considered dress style until Bilbo had taken him in hand. 

Now he studied the lady with a practised eye. Mistress Proudfoot wore garments of the very latest style to be found in the Shire’s biggest shopping centre, Michel Delving. Her skirts were full, finishing mid calf in a froth of lace trimmed petticoats. Her bodice laced over a generous waist and the blouse beneath was full sleeved and trimmed with lace and ribbons. In itself, her fashion sense, whilst a little over-exuberant, was not too bad, were it not for the fact that every garment or trim was of a different bright colour. Rather than having the harmony of a high summer garden, this looked as though someone had flung several tubs of paint at a wall.

Frodo’s distaste must have shown because Bartimus chuckled, leaning in to whisper, “You should see the inside of the cottage. Our Mistress Rosemary has a fondness for crochet. If you ever visit, be sure not to stay in one place for too long, or you’ll probably find yourself draped in the stuff. She has it on just about every piece of furniture and I swear she must crochet in her sleep.”

Frodo bit back a grin and dug an elbow in his friend’s rib, as the lady moved through the shoppers and gossips, like a ship in full sail. When she stopped before them the lady looked expectantly toward Bartimus. “Good day to you Master Brockbank. It is a pretty kind of day, is it not?”

Bartimus cleared his throat. “It is. And a good day to you, Mistress.” When the lady turned to Frodo in a very pointed way, Bartimus hastened to make introductions. “Mistress Rosemary Proudfoot, allow me to introduce Mister Frodo Baggins.”

Rosemary’s eyes took on an avaricious gleam as she surveyed Frodo from head to foot, taking in the fine linen shirt, embroidered silk waistcoat and black cord breeches. He rather got the impression that she was assessing and adding up the cost of each garment and he tugged self consciously at his waistcoat as he offered a formal bow. Mistress Proudfoot smiled a smile that got no further than her mouth, then bobbed a curtsy before cutting off any potential greeting from Frodo by shouting, “Bluebell! Come here, my girl.”

From somewhere behind Rosemary a lass appeared, face downcast beneath a tumble of glossy dark brown ringlets, and Rosemary tugged her forward so firmly that Frodo put out a hand to steady the poor lass.

Intrigued, Frodo offered another bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Proudfoot.” He studied her, wondering what manner of face was hiding beneath the ringlets, for she was making a detailed study of the ground at her feet. He noted that she had at least not adopted her mother’s style of dress. Indeed, her simple pale green frock could almost be described as plain. A perverse little imp in his head had him wondering what the face beneath those pretty ringlets looked like. He adopted his most winning manner. “And may I take it that the pretty Miss Bluebell is your sister?”

Bartimus’ surprised chortle died birthing as Frodo stepped upon his toes. For her part, Mistress Proudfoot’s smile widened and she nudged Bluebell as she replied, “No indeed. Although I thank you for the compliment. This is my daughter. Bluebell, this is Mister Baggins. Oh, do straighten up, child.”

Frodo found himself the subject of shy scrutiny by a pair of the darkest liquid brown eyes he had ever seen, set in a soft oval face. Bluebell curtsied. “Good day, Mister Baggins,” she offered, in a voice as soft as her features.

Mistress Proudfoot reclaimed his attention. “Are you, by any chance, the Mister Baggins who lives in that fine smial on top of the hill, yonder?”

Frodo had no need to follow her pointing finger, choosing instead to study Bluebell’s ringlets, which he noted glinted red in the sun. “That’s my home, yes. You must all come to Bag End for tea, once you are properly settled.” As the words left his lips Frodo wondered at the wisdom of them, for even upon such a brief exchange the avaricious gleam in Mistress Proudfoot's eye made it clear in which direction her mind was turning. He was not in the least fooled when she observed, “Such a large home must keep your lady-wife, very busy.”

Frodo offered a small smile. “I imagine she would be. At the moment I live alone, but I have help keeping it tidy.”

“Oh. You have servants?” The gleam brightened in Rosemary’s eye.

“Well, Sam is more of a friend than a servant. He works mainly in the garden but he helps out with the cleaning when I grow too messy.” He glanced aside at Bluebell once more as he added, “Being messy is one of the joys of being a bachelor.”

He inwardly cringed when Mistress Proudfoot continued with her theme, “Still, it is rather big for one person.”

“I suppose it is. I used to share it with my Uncle Bilbo but he left the Shire some years ago. I have grown used to rattling around in it alone, so the size does not bother me, and it gives me ample opportunity to have friends and family visiting.”

Rosemary’s attention drifted once more to the hill, where Bag End’s many round windows sparkled in the sun. “A smial like that needs a feminine touch. It should be filled with faunts, Mr Baggins.”

“Perhaps one day the right lady will come along.” Frodo stepped back, feeling more than a little pressed by this particular lady. “Well, I must be going. I have shopping to do before all the stalls close for the day. Good day to you, once more, Mistress Proudfoot, Miss Proudfoot.”

He took a firm hold of Bartimus’ elbow and turned them both about, noting as he did so that his friend was shaking with barely concealed mirth. “If you tell Daisy about that I will skin you alive, Barti.”

“But Frodo, I’d be failing in my duty as a friend and husband myself, if I didn’t point out the advantages of having a wife,” Bartimus spluttered out around a laugh.

“In this case it’s not the wife that worries me so much as her mother,” Frodo observed.

“You’re not dismissing the lass out of hand, then?” Barti pressed with a mischievous grin.

“Barti!”

Over the next few weeks it seemed to Frodo that he saw a great deal of Bluebell and Rosemary Proudfoot. Whenever he entered the village they would materialise within minutes. On a whim, he tried changing his market days, only to discover that they seemed to shop on those days too. Frodo began to suspect that Rosemary kept watch for him at the window, for Dandelion Clocks overlooked the market square. 

It did not help that the Proudfoot family lived next door to his best friend and that said friend’s wife seemed to have become good friends with Bluebell. Now he approached Bartimus and Daisy’s home to discover Daisy and Bluebell deep in conversation on the little front lawn, with a five-year-old Bell chasing butterflies in the borders.

He drew a deep breath and counted it a blessing that at least Rosemary was nowhere to be seen at present. “Hello.”

The heads of both lasses jerked toward him and Frodo got the distinct impression that he had interrupted something deeply personal. Daisy’s face closed and Bluebell blushed furiously, before dropping her gaze to study her lap. Daisy patted her new friend’s knee before adopting a wide smile. “Hello, Frodo. Have you come to see our Bell?”

Frodo opened the gate and little Bell threw herself at him, clasping grubby hands about his knees. “Uncle Fwodo!”

He giggled, bending to scoop her up and twirl her about. “Hello pumpkin! What have you been up to?” Pumpkin was the name Frodo had used for his adoptive niece since not long after her birth, for she had a head of glorious pumpkin coloured curls. Bell had even been known to call herself pumpkin on occasion, much to Daisy’s mock annoyance.

“I been chasin’ fairies,” Bell announced gravely. “But they too fast,” she pouted.

Frodo laughed. “But whatever would you do with a fairy if you caught it?”

“Silly Uncle Fwodo. Play with it,” she declared, as though this were the most obvious of reasons and grown-ups really were too slow.

“Are you sure you didn’t catch any?” her uncle asked.

“No, Fwodo. Look?” and she held out her grubby little hands for inspection, to prove there were no fairies hiding there.

“Hmm I bet you did catch one. I expect you’ve hidden it in your pocket. Let me see!” With those words he upended the lass, who squealed with delight as he shook her by the heels, revealing a froth of white petticoats and a pair of lace trimmed pantaloons. 

Something landed on the grass by her head and Bell’s eyes widened. Frodo winked at Daisy as he lowered the little faunt so that she could pick it up, then settled upon the grass at her side while Bell examined the item intently. It was a beautifully painted and painstakingly carved butterfly on a short stick, with some sort of handle at the bottom. Bell beamed up at her benefactor. “It’s a fairy!”

“Of your very own. And look…” He held the stick and wound the handle. Sturdy little wings flapped up and down and Bell’s eyes widened. When he let go she tried the handle herself, giggling in delight. “Thank you Uncle Fwodo!” She wrapped both chubby little arms about his neck and planted a slightly sloppy kiss upon his cheek.

Frodo resisted the temptation to wipe away the slobber. “You’re welcome, Pumpkin.”

Bell ran to show her mother, then raced off to circle the garden with her new toy. Frodo came to join the lasses and Daisy frowned at him, handing over a clean hanky. “You spoil her.”

He shrugged as he dabbed at his cheek and handed it back. “She’s been talking of fairies for weeks. I’ve nobody else to spoil and I am her honorary uncle. It’s the job of uncles to spoil their nieces.” He turned to Bluebell. “Did Daisy tell you that I was there at Bell’s birth?”

Bluebell looked up at last and he drowned in the depths of those huge brown eyes. They were easily her best feature, if only she would let people see them more often. “She did. You must have been very frightened.”

“Why would he be frightened? I was the one having a baby, with no midwife or doctor about,” Daisy scoffed, before softening her words by sticking out her tongue at Frodo.

Frodo grinned. “Careful Daisy. Remember what your Ma used to say. ‘If the wind changes ye’ll be stuck with that face, my lass.’” 

Daisy rolled her eyes but not before he saw a flicker of pain there. It had been less than five years since her mother’s death and although time had softened the hurt, it was still there. Frodo felt it too, sometimes, but he suspected it was worse for Daisy, who no doubt wanted to share all little Bell’s triumphs with the grandmother for whom she was named. In truth, one of the reasons Frodo had started to call Bell, Pumpkin, was that just using the name had brought him heartache.

Bluebell sat, silent, between the two. “Where is your mother today?” Frodo asked, attempting to draw her into the conversation.

She cast a glance toward her home. “Mama is baking I think.”

Frodo winked at Daisy. “So you have slipped her apron strings for a few hours. Whatever will you do with so much freedom?” 

“I don’t know…I mean…I thought I’d just stay here…if Daisy will let me,” Bluebell stammered, with a pretty blush.

Daisy gave Frodo an assessing look, pursing her lips. “Your Ma don’t cut you loose too often, so you’ve not seen much of the village. Why not let Frodo show you around?”

Bluebell’s eyes widened in alarm and she glanced toward her home as though about to bolt. “I…I’m not sure…would it be…alright, do you think?”

“I promise to be the perfect gentlehobbit,” Frodo assured her gravely. “I shall take you to see the Party Field and we can cross the bridge and walk back along the river bank.”

Bluebell looked to Daisy, obviously seeking assurance. Daisy, being Daisy, was not fulsome in her praise. “I don’t know about the ‘perfect’ bit, but Frodo’s safe enough. Don’t you worry.”

Frodo acknowledged the hit, clapping a hand to his heart. “Daisy Brockbank, you wound me.”

“Oh, get on with you, Frodo Baggins! Show this poor lass what sights we have, not that we’ve many. I need to get my Bell her tea and she’ll need a lot of cleanin’ up before then.” Bell was too busy trying to feed a worm to her ‘fairy’ to notice his imminent departure.

Climbing to his feet, Frodo bent to give Bluebell a hand up. The girl shyly slipped her hand in his and was raised gently to her feet. Once there, however, Bluebell reclaimed it, tucking her hand in her pocket. Frodo thought he saw a curtain twitch at the Brockhouse residence but there was no sign of the door opening, so he hastened their escape before it could.

As they crossed the market square Frodo was uncomfortably aware of the assessing glances thrown their way and began to wonder whether this was such a good idea. He had no romantic interest in Bluebell, and suspected she had none in him, although he found her quiet nature appealing in its way. Bluebell seemed very aware of the curiosity too, so the pair picked up the pace until they reached the wooden bridge. There, in the shade of an overhanging willow, Frodo paused to lean upon the rail and, together, he and Bluebell watched the river glide beneath them.

“How is your father settling in? I have not seen him about.”

Whether it was the calm of the water or simply an absence of prying eyes, was not clear, but Bluebell seemed more relaxed here. “Papa says it will take a while for people to trust him. He’s gone fishing near Bywater today.”

“Really? There’s some good fishing on that stretch of the Water. There’s a bend, just before the pond, where trees shade the shallows. It’s one of my favourite spots. Tell him that if he has the time, I will show him where it is. Does your father fish often?”

Bluebell cleared her throat with some delicacy. “He says it’s good for him to get out of the cottage.”

It had taken only a few short exchanges with Rosemary Proudfoot, for Frodo to grasp why Adelard Proudfoot wanted to spend as much time away from home as possible. “What made your family wish to move from Frogmorton?”

“Mama said that Papa would have more customers here. Frogmorton is quite small, you know.”

Frodo nodded. “I have travelled through it, and I stayed at the inn, The Floating Log, once. It did seem rather quiet. I don’t suppose there are many tweens there.”

Bluebell shook her head, one hand straying to toy with a long chain that disappeared into her bodice. “There’s one or two, but it’s not like Hobbiton. This place feels so big.”

“Big? I suppose it is, compared to Frogmorton. I spent most of my childhood at Brandy Hall, in Buckland. Now that is huge.” Frodo grinned as he turned about to lean his elbows upon the warmed wood of the rail, and gaze up at the swaying curtains of the willow. “Hobbiton is one of the larger villages in the Shire. The northern side,” he waved at the land at the other end of the bridge, “Is the oldest part, being more hilly. Bag End is at the top of the hill, with Bagshot Row leading up to it.” He pointed to a row of little smials, close along the river bank to his left. “Those smials are more recent.”

Bluebell studied the tiny windows and doors. “Newer than the cottages?” As a rule, hobbits preferred to live in smials, so they tended to be the older properties in any village.

“This area along the river floods every so often. But that makes the land inexpensive so…” Frodo shrugged. “Would you like to walk on?” When Bluebell nodded, Frodo led her over the bridge and to their right. At the foot of Bagshot Lane he paused, pointing to a rather grand gate, opening onto a large field, set to pasture. At present a flock of sheep grazed, surrounded by a bleating gambol of this year's lambs. “That’s what we call the Party Field. It’s owned by Tom Cotton but he lets everyone use it for fairs, parties and the Yule bonfire.” He nodded toward a huge spreading chestnut tree. “When Bilbo held his last birthday party here the pavilion was so large that it enclosed that tree.”

Bluebell’s eyes widened. “So big? Bilbo was your uncle, wasn’t he?” She looked up at Bag End’s many windows. “Do you really live in that huge smial all by yourself? Aren’t you lonely?”

Frodo glanced aside at her face, but could find none of her mother’s avarice, only simple curiosity. “I love living in Bag End. There’s plenty of space, although you’re right, despite what I told your mother the other day, I sometimes feel there is too much space for just one hobbit. Being so high has its advantages, though. When I look out of the parlour window I can see the whole village spread out below. Sometimes, on summer evenings, I sit in the front garden with my pipe and a glass of wine, and watch as lights are lit in every window. They seem to mirror the stars above me, and it’s as though I float in the midst of the heavens.”

“I think you're a poet at heart, Frodo Baggins.”

Frodo smiled, taking her arm to turn right again, and thread through more cottages until they reached a wider lane, leading to a solid-looking stone bridge. “This brings us back to the main part of the village and the market square.” He pointed behind them at an area to the east, just visible between the haphazardly placed cottages. “That’s common land. It’s a bit rough under foot and the soil is poor, so it’s used mainly to graze the odd cow or pony.” He nodded back toward Bagshot Row. “Arty Sedgebury, who lives at Number One grazes his cow, Clara, there in summer.”

“Mama says that you own all the property on Bagshot Row,” Bluebell ventured as Frodo steered her toward the stone bridge.

He resisted the urge to sigh. No doubt Rosemary Proudfoot had been making extensive enquiries about the single gentlehobbit on the hill. One of the disadvantages of living in a village was that everyone knew everyone else’s business. “Yes. All but Number Three. That’s owned by the Gamgees.”

The were now strolling across the bridge, toward the bustle of the Market Square. “That’s Daisy’s family, isn’t it?” Bluebell asked, as they stepped aside to allow a hobbit with a handcart pass them, hurrying in the other direction.

“That’s right. When I was a tween I spent many an hour in their kitchen.” Frodo smiled wistfully. “I am very fond of all the Gamgee family.” Once more, they ran the gauntlet of the market square, finally standing before the garden gate of Dandelion Clocks.

Bluebell held out her hand and Frodo shook it, a prickling sensation down his back alerting him to the presence of Rosemary Proudfoot’s face at the kitchen window. Bluebell looked down. “Thank you, Mister Baggins. It was good of you to take the time to show me about,” she intoned, in a formula obviously learned by rote.

Frodo squeezed her fingers before letting go. “We’re almost the same age, Bluebell. You can call me Frodo, and it was my pleasure.” He opened the gate for her and as Bluebell hurried off, up the path to her waiting mother, reflected upon the fact that it had, indeed, been a pleasure.


	11. Chapter 11

“We’re almost there,” Frodo announced as the cart turned up the lane toward Great Smials.

Bartimus shifted Bell in his lap. She had finally fallen asleep about an hour ago, much to the relief of both her parents, for the youngster did not take too kindly to spending a long day riding in a cart. Her young limbs wanted to run and play and despite all the adults taking turns to entertain her, she had grown fractious toward the end.

Now everyone but Bell and Frodo leaned forward to get their first glimpse of the grand home of the Thain. A group of low hills had been deeply delved over many generations and, when they ran out of room within the hill, more low wings were added, most containing the business of the large residential and farming community. Most of the Gamgee family had likely never seen a place so huge, Frodo reflected, as he watched jaws drop and eyes widen.

As they pulled into the cobbled yard the massive main doors opened and people poured out, led by two rather grand looking hobbits. Frodo leapt from the wagon first, then turned to help down Gaffer Gamgee, who winced as he straightened stiff joints. Others of the Gamgee clan descended in their turn; Sam, Daisy with her husband, Bartimus, who held their dozing Bell, Hamson, along with his wife, Honeysuckle, who was increasing with their first child, Halfred, and finally, Marigold. 

It was doubtful that Tom Carter had every carried so many, requiring the hire of an extra pony, and his passengers were packed cheek-by-jowl. Frodo had initially suggested that he follow on, riding another pony, but the Gamgees would not hear of it, insisting that he was a part of their family. Frodo was actually pleased that he had acquiesced for, apart from young Bell’s fretfulness, it had been a merry journey. Now he led the family forward to make introductions.

“Hello Aunt, Uncle. Master Gamgee, allow me to introduce Paladin, heir to the Thain, and his lady wife, Eglantine Took.”

Frodo led each Gamgee forward, in turn. The Gaffer and his lads tugged at their forelocks as the lasses dropped curtsey’s, with varying degrees of grace. Paladin nodded, and offered his hand in greeting to all, followed by a smiling Eglantine. 

When all were introduced Paladin offered a broad smile. “Now that we have formalities out-of-the-way … welcome, everyone. I cannot think of a happier reason to meet and …” He was interrupted by a figure, who dashed across the cobbles from the direction of the dairy, Sandy ringlets barely contained within a spotless white kerchief. 

“Da!” Headless of all convention, May Gamgee threw herself into her father’s arms, all but knocking him off his feet, still stiff as he was from the journey. His embrace was no less enthusiastic, for all that.

Paladin’s grin only grew but Eglantine cleared her throat. May’s eyes widened as she released her father and spun to face her employers, a blush rising. Before she could speak however, Eglantine raised a hand, breaking into a wide smile. “May, you are excused duties until after your wedding, and you can tell Erling the same. You can make showing your family to their chambers your last duty.” Now she addressed the Gaffer. “I have cleared three rooms for your family. I hope you will find them comfortable but if you need anything, only ring the bell and a servant will attend you.” When the Gaffer looked a little alarmed she added, “And don’t be afraid to ring, sir. You are our guests and must treat our home as your own for the duration of your stay.”

Paladin, chuckled. “We shall expect you all for supper in the main hall later, where I will introduce you to the Thain. Frodo, your usual room awaits, as does Pippin. You had best not keep my son waiting longer, or he shall wear away the carpet with his pacing.” With those words he led his lady back into the fine hallway.

May threw an arm about her father and Marigold. “Da. You should see the rooms. You’ll be sharing with Sam and Halfred, but Bartimus, Daisy and Bell have a room to themselves and Hamson and Honeysuckle have their own too. They’re not in the servants area, neither.” Marigold, she gave a squeeze. “We didn’t think you’d like being alone so you’re to share with me. I hope you don’t mind being with the servants.”

Indeed, of them all, Marigold looked the most relieved.

Feeling almost forgotten, Frodo watched a slightly stunned Gamgee family follow the chattering May into Great Smials grand hallway, and wondered what they would make of the large, airy rooms, Eglantine had obviously allocated them. No doubt they would feel palatial and more than a little overwhelming after the small and cosy Number Three, Bagshot Row. He smiled. They would cope, because they were a family, and family looked after each other. 

Had May's mother, Bell Gamgee, been alive May would have been getting wed in Hobbiton. But Bell was gone and age and grief sat too heavily on the Gaffer, and Marigold was yet young to take on such responsibility. Daisy was prepared to take up the reins if asked, but she had her own small family to care for, and not yet her mother's experience at juggling several responsibilities at once. So, when May's employers offered to organise and host the event, pointing out that it was something they often undertook for their staff, the Gamgees accepted with grace. 

Frodo received his own exuberant greeting when he opened the door to his room. Pippin all but exploded off the bed. “You’re here at last! I thought you would never arrive! You certainly took your time for such a short journey.”

His cousin dropped his bag, folding his arms as he remained standing just within the doorway. “And hello to you too, Peregrin Took. I swear your manners get worse with each passing year.” He shook his head. “And you were such a sweet little faunt.”

Pippin rolled his eyes, letting out a huge sigh. “Hello Cousin Frodo.” He dumped the formalities at once, however. “But where have you been? I expected you at tea time at the latest and now it’s almost time for supper.”

Frodo slipped out of his jacket and stretched. “May’s sister-by-marriage, Honeysuckle, is expecting her first child, so Tom had to drive carefully.”

Pippin grimaced. “Expecting? Yuk. Pearl’s friend, Iris is expecting and she takes ages to walk anywhere. From the back she looks like a duck.” He demonstrated by performing a pincer-toed waddle that was so accurate of a heavily pregnant lady, that Frodo broke into a loud laugh. 

“Pippin, trying to be serious around you is hopeless.”

“I should hope so. There are far too many serious people in the world if you ask me.” He swept Frodo into a hug, then grabbed his cousin’s bag and dropped it on the bed. “Good gracious. Whatever have you got in here?”

Frodo unbuckled the top. “My best suit, for one thing. I am here to attend a wedding, after all. I’ve also brought you this.” He produced a large book, emblazoned in gold upon the cover of which was, “A History Of The Shire, by Bilbo Baggins.” 

Pippin all but snatched it from him. “Has it got all the family histories in it? Have you been hoarding it all these years since Bilbo left? That would be too bad of you.”

“Hoarding? No. Bilbo wanted you to have it when he left but I had to send it away for binding.”

“But that’s years ago,” Pippin pointed out.

“Well, I couldn’t find anyone in the local area who could do it justice. In the end I managed to get word to Bree. Someone there said they would do the job and I've been waiting for it's return. The Brandybucks don't trade outside the Shire as much as they did.”

Pippin ran his hands, with some awe, over the fine calfskin cover with it’s gold lettering. “Frodo, it’s beautiful.” Suddenly Frodo was being hugged so tightly he could scarcely breathe. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.” 

Two days later Frodo sat alone in the garden, beneath the shade of a fine silver birch tree, trying not to watch as Marigold Gamgee and Erling Overhill, kissed deeply, framed within the arched gateway. When Erling departed May looked straight at Frodo, then crossed the lawn toward him. 

“Hello Frodo.” May settled upon the bench at his side and spread her skirts. “We didn’t really have time to talk at supper yesterday. What do you think of Erling?”

The sweet-apple scent of her brought back memories and he smiled. “I think he is a better match for you than I would ever have been.”

May turned to find his eyes, searching them for a long moment. “He is. You will always be my first love, though.” She turned back to look over the summer garden. “I still have your letters you know.”

“Gracious! What does Erling think of that?”

May gave a soft smile. “He knows about you and me, but he hasn’t seen the letters. Maybe I’ll show them to him some day. I don’t expect you’ve kept mine?”

Frodo felt himself colouring as he confessed, “They’re in a box in the bottom of my wardrobe.”

“I hope one day you’ll have to decide whether you need to show them to your new wife. You deserve to find a good lass, Frodo.” May leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, and then Frodo watched in silence as she walked away across the lawn.

May Gamgee became May Erling the next day, their hand-fasting presided over by Will Whitfoot and blessed by the Thain, a fact that had Hamfast Gamgee all but bursting with pride. As Mister Erling and his new wife clambered into the cart that was to take them to Michel Delving for their honeymoon, May leaned down to whisper to Frodo, “Promise me you’ll find yourself another lass to write to.”

Frodo smiled. “I’ll try.”

Spring ran into summer and a couple of months after May’s wedding, Gaffer Gamgee received news of the birth of his second grandchild. Hamson and Honeysuckle named him Hamfast, after his grandpa and Ham Gamgee bought a half for every person in the Ivy Bush the day he heard the news, and was wheeled home in a barrow by an only slightly less inebriated Sam.

Daisy and Bluebell Proudfoot became fast friends, although it was known that Bluebell’s mother, Rosemary, did not approve of her daughter associating with folk so low on the social ladder. Some, less kindly people, suggested that the only reason Rosemary allowed the friendship was because it gave access, through Daisy, to the Master of Bag End. For his part, Frodo tried not to give credence to such talk.

He and Bluebell ran into each other quite regularly, after all Hobbiton was only a village, if one of the Shire’s larger ones. Birthday parties came around with pleasant regularity and, being a nice enough lass, Bluebell was invited to most, although she usually just sat in a corner, and only danced or spoke if someone addressed her first. It was clear that she was painfully shy and unsure of herself, and with a mother like Rosemary it was obvious to anyone with half a brain, why. Mistress Proudfoot had issued several invitations for Mister Baggins to come to tea, and Frodo was running out of polite ways to say, “No, thank you”.

“Good afternoon, Mister Baggins.”

Frodo turned to find Adelard Proudfoot walking toward him, fishing rod over his shoulder and tackle box in hand. “Good afternoon, Doctor. Did you catch anything?”

Adelard came abreast and the two fell into step. “I did, but I let them go. Rosemary is not fond of cleaning fish.” He grimaced. “Anyway, I only fish to get out of the cottage.”

“Have you no customers today?”

“Not this afternoon. I paid a visit to the Widow Hoarfoot this morning but, truth told, Aster Tunnelly can do more good for her arthritis than I. I asked Aster to make up one of her ointments.”

“Gaffer Gamgee swears by her rubbing ointment,” Frodo noted. “So, what will you be doing with the rest of your day?”

Adelard sighed. “I shall probably sit in my study and read.” He drew a deep breath. “But first I have a duty to discharge. I understand that my wife has issued several invitations for you to join us for tea. In the absence of your reply to those written invitations I have been charged with issuing the request in person.”

Frodo swallowed. “Well, I’m not…”

Adelard shook his head. “It’s no use, Mister Baggins. Rosemary will have her way. She is like a river, wearing away at the stones in its bed, and always wins in the end. It’s best to get it over with, and then you can move on to the more pleasant things in life.”

When he saw Frodo’s mouth drop open at such a confession Adelard shrugged. “Most marriages are happy but some need a little accommodation. Rosemary and I rub along well enough as long as she stays in the home, and I stay out of it. Sometimes I am fortunate to stay out of it for the whole day. It is both the curse and the blessing of being a doctor, that I must be available for calls at all hours.”

“And what of Bluebell?” Frodo asked.

Adelard shrugged, a little dismissively. “Bluebell remains with her mother. It seems to suit them both.”

Frodo wondered if Bluebell was truly suited to being under her mother’s thumb, but decided it was not his place to interfere in the affairs of other families. By now they had reached Dandelion Clocks and Frodo opened the gate for the doctor. Doctor Proudfoot set down his box. “Well, Mister Baggins, will you accept my wife’s offer?”

Capitulation seemed the only way forward if Frodo was to avoid skulking in hedgerows every time he left Bag End. “When would you like me to call?”

“Wise chap,” Doctor Proudfoot noted, patting Frodo’s shoulder before bending to lift his box again. “Trewsday next. Tea is at half past three and I recommend you not be late. Rosemary likes her life orderly.” He started down the path, pausing to call over his shoulder, “And come with an empty stomach.”

The following Tuesday Frodo was standing before the round red door of Dandelion Clocks. Feeling rather as he used to as a lad, called up before the Master, Frodo resisted the urge to check his foothair, instead reaching for the door knocker, the shape of which gave the house its name. Before he could grasp it, however, the door swung in to reveal Bluebell Proudfoot. “Please come in Mister Baggins.”

“Thank you Miss Proudfoot.” He stepped into a large room and paused for a long moment while his eyes valiantly tried to make sense of the scene.

Dandelion Clocks was one of the larger cottages in Hobbiton and had belonged to the previous doctor and his family. Mrs Brockleby used to be very proud of their home. Plain but elegant furniture had been polished to a deep brown sheen, gleaming white net curtains had adorned the round windows and a scatter of soft green cushions had graced the comfortable chairs.

Frodo hardly recognised the room now. A huge carpet squatted, four-square, in the centre of the room, it’s violent combination of red, yellow, green and blue alone, an assault to the senses. The carpet could have been forgiven, were it not for the rest of the furnishings. Every chair held assorted crochet covered cushions, in a variety of eye-watering colours, every surface boasted a crochet doily, and every doily held an ornament. Frodo felt as though he had just stepped into a menagerie, his over-loaded mind registering birds, cats, ponies and fish, along with a selection of vases in a kaleidoscope of colours. Until now he had not been aware that the Shire even produced such items.

In the centre of this chaos stood Rosemary Proudfoot, wearing a smile that would have looked more at home upon a cat that had just been presented with a barrel of cream, and a dress, in a shade of puce that Frodo fully expected to set his eyeballs bleeding before the end of the meal. 

“Welcome to our humble home, Mister Baggins. Please make yourself comfortable.” Mistress Proudfoot waved Frodo to one of the seemingly already over-filled chairs. 

“Thank you for inviting me, Mistress.” Frodo tried to sit, but found that its abundance of cushions obliged him to perch precariously upon the edge of the offered chair. “Will Doctor Proudfoot be joining us?”

Rosemary gave a moue that would have done his Aunt Lobelia proud. “My husband is attending a birth in Bywater. I confess I do not know why. Aster Tunnelly seems a quite capable midwife for such as the Bracegirdles.”

Frodo suspected he knew the precise cause of Adelard’s willingness to attend, but only nodded, narrowing his eyes in vain attempt to dim some of the colours, which were initiating a headache. “Sometimes Aster does call in a doctor.”

Bluebell had disappeared but now she returned, bearing a large teapot. Her mother beamed. “And here is the tea. Bluebell is so good at brewing tea. Won’t you come to the table Mister Baggins?”

Frodo had always found the brewing of tea a rather simple affair, but decided to keep such opinions to himself. It was with some relief that he stood, ceding full ownership of the chair to the cushions once more. At least those chairs ranged about the table were devoid of excessive padding and he assisted both ladies into their seats before taking his own, causing Mistress Proudfoot to preen quite visibly. Rosemary commanded the head of the table, whilst Frodo had been placed to her left, with Bluebell close at his side. It was a large table, and he saw no reason for such cramped seating arrangements. 

At least Rosemary Proudfoot set a good table, for it almost groaned under the weight of food. “Please help yourself Mister Baggins” While the lady poured tea for everyone he surveyed the comestibles on display. There was seed cake, little honey cakes, shortbread, chocolate cake … no… make that three chocolate cakes, assorted iced buns, walnut cake, carrot cake, a large platter of biscuits and a rather small plate of cheese sandwiches. It seemed the Proudfoot family were quite fond of cake, a fact attested to by Rosemary’s ample figure. He selected a cheese sandwich, wishing there were some tomatoes to go with it, or a nice piece of pork pie, with pickles on the side.

“Do you take milk and sugar?” Rosemary asked, as she offered a lump of sugar so large that Frodo seriously doubted that it would fit in his teacup. Rather than risk losing his teeth he declined, but did accept the miserly splash of milk. He offered the sandwich plate to Bluebell, who selected one with a downcast look and politely whispered, “Thank you, Mister Frodo”. Rosemary declined, cutting herself a huge wedge of chocolate cake.

Around a mouthful she declared, “Bluebell made most of these cakes. She is an excellent cook, Mister Baggins. You really should try her carrot cake. It was she who suggested the cheese sandwiches by-the-way. My stomach will not tolerate bread, you understand. I am a martyr to my digestion. Doctor Proudfoot says he despairs of it. Yes, indeed.”

Frodo had no doubt of the veracity of that statement, and took a large swallow of weak tea to help wash down the tiny sandwich. He selected a piece of shortbread and Rosemary beamed. “Bluebell made that too. She has such a light hand. You’ll find it as short as can be and, of course, we only use the best butter in this home.”

Bluebell glanced at him from beneath thick, dark lashes, and Frodo obliged her with a large bite of shortbread and a wide smile. “It is lovely. Very short indeed. You must give me your recipe, Miss Proudfoot.” 

Bluebell blushed, opened her mouth, but it was her mother who answered for her. “She will. You must take some shortbread home with you, indeed you only need ask, and Bluebell will fetch some to your very doorstep, whenever you wish. Do try the chocolate cake, and then you must have some of Bluebell’s famous carrot cake.”

Before Frodo could say “yay” or “nay”, a piece of cake, of such size that it could have served an entire household in any other setting, arrived on his plate. Frodo set too, with his fork and a will, hoping that his stomach would survive the onslaught, and seriously doubting he would manage carrot cake as well. He had the generous appetite of any healthy hobbit lad, but even he drew the line somewhere.

An hour later, Bluebell had said little beyond, “Thank you” and Rosemary had extolled the virtues of her daughter with hardly a pause for breath. Indeed, Frodo marvelled that she managed to make herself so clearly understood, when her mouth was so permanently stuffed with confectionery. 

At the end of the hour Rosemary was finishing off a third piece of chocolate cake, whilst both Frodo and Bluebell had stopped eating some time ago. In deference to good manners Frodo sat, while Rosemary continued eating, but now his stomach was beginning to protest, just watching her, and she showed no signs of stopping. He cleared his throat.

“I thank you for the delightful tea, but I fear I really must leave.”

Rosemary paused in her eating, for the first time in an hour. “Oh dear. Why, you have barely sampled the carrot cake. Must you go so soon?”

Frodo pasted on his most apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I must. I have left a casserole simmering in the oven and I should check that it has not burned dry.”

Bluebell was silent but not so Rosemary, who made a last-ditch attempt to keep her guest. “Surely your manservant … what’s-his-name, will look after that for you.”

Frodo pushed down his ire and kept his smile in place, for the sake of Bluebell, who had paled at her mother’s words. “I have never considered Sam Gamgee as a servant. Anyway, he will have gone home for the day and I prefer to cook my own suppers.”

“You need a wife, Mr Baggins. Doesn’t he, Bluebell? Someone to prepare all your meals, so that you can concentrate upon … just what do you do with your days Mr Baggins, if I may be so bold as to enquire?”

Frodo bit the inside of his cheek. “My uncle left me comfortably provided, and my days are not so full that I do not find the time to cook. But now I really beg you to excuse me.” He stood, and his hosts were obliged to do likewise. “Thank you, again, Mistress Proudfoot, Miss Proudfoot.” He bowed to both and, at a frantic and poorly disguised signal from Rosemary, Bluebell accompanied him to the door.

Minutes later Frodo inhaled deeply of the clear air and burped loudly. When he reached home he would have to seek out Aster Tunnelly’s digestive water. He was certain Bilbo had left some, probably at the back of the medicine cabinet. As it happened, he need not have worried. In the centre of his kitchen table was a bottle, with Doctor Proudfoot’s label and the instruction to take one teaspoon after meals, as required.

Frodo decided that he very much ‘required’.


	12. Chapter 12

“Hello, Bluebell.” Frodo smiled down at the lass, where she sat, upon the lower branch of a very ancient oak. “I see you’ve found my favourite hide-away.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he regretted it, for Bluebell blushed, jumping to her feet, almost dropping her book in her flustered state. “I...I’m so sorry, Frodo. I had no idea,” she stammered.

Frodo caught her sleeve, when she would have hurried off. “Wait, Bluebell. I didn’t mean that you should leave! This is public land and you have as much right here as I. If you wish to be left in peace to read your book it is I who should move on.”

Bluebell stayed, but Frodo was reminded of the time he had coaxed a robin to feed from his hand...the fine tremors running through its tiny body signalling that it would take flight at the slightest hint of danger. He released her at once, thinking he had perhaps overstepped the bounds of propriety in her mind. “The branch is long enough for two. Why don’t we both sit down?” He waved toward the limb and Bluebell settled. Frodo sat at a respectable remove. “What brings you so far from home, today?”

“I sometimes sneak out when Mama takes her afternoon nap,” Bluebell confessed to her lap.

Her new companion grinned. “Perhaps you should ask your Papa to teach you how to fish.” When Bluebell grimaced Frodo chuckled. “Not a fan of fishing? I find it restful, but to each his own. He nodded to the large volume in her lap. “What are you reading?”

Bluebell lifted the battered tome. “It’s a history of the Tooks. Papa lets me borrow from his book shelf. He trained at Great Smials you know.”

Adelard Proudfoot instantly went up in Frodo’s estimation. “I did not. Did he train under old Sigismond Took?”

For the first time since his arrival, Bluebell lifted her head. “He was at Great Smials for five years and Papa said that Doctor Took considered him his best pupil.” She tilted her head, in an attempt to read the title on his smaller book. “What are you reading?”

Frodo held it up for her inspection. Expertly bound in calfskin, it’s gold tooled cover glistening in the sunlight. “It’s a book of some of the elven creation tales. This,” he pointed to a line of runes that looked unfamiliar, “Is written in Sindarin, which is one of the elvish languages. It says, ‘The Ainulindule’.”

Bluebell reached out one finger to stroke the words, almost as though hoping to absorb their meaning through touch and, for the first time, Frodo noticed that she bit her fingernails. Now her voice filled with awe as she turned in her place. “Ainulindule. I had heard that your uncle met elves and spoke their language, but I didn’t know that you did.”

Frodo grinned. “It’s not something I spread about too widely. Folk think me odd enough already. Bilbo taught me a fair bit before he left and I’m learning more as I read. I can teach you, if you’re interested. I helped teach Sam how to read and write Westron. The history of the elves is much more exciting than ours.”

Bluebell shook her head. “I thank you, but, no. I have enough trouble with our language, and I don’t have much cause to read elvish.”

Frodo glanced down at her own book. “If that’s a copy of the book at Great Smials I’m not surprised you’re having trouble. It’s written in a rather archaic form.” Before she could stop him he lifted the tome from her lap, opening it to the title page. Something slipped out and he snatched it from the air, before it could land in the grass. “What’s this?”

It was clear what it was. The rose was still brightly coloured, so it must have been pressed relatively recently. It was also clear that it was only Bluebell’s naturally hesitant nature that prevented her from snatching it back, so Frodo relinquished it to her care again. Once it was safely within her grasp Bluebell attempted to make light of it. “It’s from our old garden in Frogmorton. I’ve been using it as a bookmark.” 

Something in the tender way she cradled the blossom reminded Frodo of a small box of letters in the bottom of his wardrobe and he wondered whether Bluebell, too, had once lost a sweetheart. He returned the book. “Well, I am willing to share my favourite reading corner if you are.”

Bluebell smiled, and for the first time since he had known her he saw her eyes shine with pleasure. “I would like that very much.”

They sat together through most of the afternoon, each engrossed in their own bookish world and growing comfortable in each other’s presence.

During the rest of the summer they met there, one or two afternoons each week, sharing sandwiches or shortbread and speaking of what they had read. Once out of her Mama’s sphere, Frodo discovered that Bluebell was a very likeable lass, and quite comfortable to be around, so it was only natural that he invite her to his next birthday party.

It was on a day at the beginning of September that he made his way to the gate of Dandelion Clocks. He was about to enter when he heard Bell’s giggle and turned about to see Daisy, Bell and Bluebell strolling toward him. The two ladies were deep in conversation, Bluebell, as was her habit, toying absently with a fine chain about her neck. They had not noticed him yet and Frodo suspected that they were also unaware of Orton Sandyman, strolling only a few steps behind.

Bell did notice her ‘uncle’ however, running into his open arms with a loud squeal. He gathered her in, standing with her on his hip. “Hello Pumpkin. Golly, but you’re getting big. Hello Daisy, Bluebell.” He glanced pointedly over Daisy’s shoulder. “What brings you to Hobbiton, Orton?”

As he suspected they would, both lasses halted their conversation and spun about to scowl at Orton, who grinned knowingly. “I was just takin’ a walk, is all. There’s no law against walkin’,” he replied before picking up his pace and sauntering off, whistling.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “I swear he gets worse each year. Every time he looks at me it feels like I ain’t got no clothes on.”

Bluebell gave a delicate shudder. “I thought it was only me who felt that way about him.”

Daisy shook her head. “Oh, no. Every lass in Hobbiton or Bywater will say the same. Don’t you ever let him get you alone in a corner. Honeysuckle Chub says he’s got more arms than a spider has legs.”

“I like spiders,” little Bell announced.

“Do you, now?” Frodo asked with a grin. “And what do you like about spiders?”

“There’s a tiny one lives in the stones under my bedroom window and it has stripy legs.” She squirmed to get free and Frodo let her down. “Come and see, Uncle Frodo.” With those words she grabbed his hand and Frodo only had time to shoot Daisy an apologetic look before being dragged away into the garden.

Once Bell had finished introducing Frodo to her new eight legged friend she ran off to join some of her playmates and Daisy pushed a mug of tea into his hand. “Were you comin’ to visit me, or Bluebell?” she asked with an arch smile.

Frodo braced himself and took a careful sip of the thick brew. “Both, actually.” He fished in his pocket and handed over a small card. “I came to invite you to my birthday party. Your invitation also includes Bartimus, of course and you can bring Bell if you like. We can always tuck her into bed when she gets sleepy.”

Daisy grinned. “Don’t be daft. If our Bell thinks she’s goin’ to miss some excitement she’ll stay awake ‘till dawn. Are you invitin’ Marigold?”

“I considered it, why?”

“She loves Bell and she’s still young herself. I think she’d rather look after Bell for the night.”

Frodo frowned, “Are you sure?” He could think of few hobbits who would reject an invitation to a party and it was common practice to set aside a quiet corner for youngsters to snooze, while the grown ups continued to celebrate.

Daisy punched his arm, almost making him spill his tea. “Do you not trust me, Frodo Baggins?”

“Daisy Brockbank, you were the bane of my tweenage life. Of course I don’t trust you,” he replied with a wide grin.

Daisy laughed. “It was fun, makin’ you blush. I lost count of the times Ma used to send me to feed the pig, in punishment for teasin’ you. But it was worth it. You used to blush so.”

“You'll find it more difficult to put me to the blush nowadays, and I think Barti would have something to say about his wife teasing a bachelor. But are you certain about Marigold?”

Daisy laid hand on her heart and intoned, “I promise that our Marigold will be more excited than a faunt on birthday morn. She'll love lookin’ after Bell. And Pa will be just as pleased to have my little lass visit for the night. Just make sure you send our Mari. a slice of cake.”

“I shall send two pieces, one for Marigold and one for the Gaffer.” He handed back the now empty mug and fished in his pocket again, to produce another card. “This one is for Bluebell, but I see she went home while Bell dragged me off.” He eyed the net curtains of Dandelion Clocks, suspecting that Rosemary Proudfoot was lurking behind them, watching as he and Daisy leaned upon the garden wall.

Daisy chuckled. “Rosemary will be pleased to see you.”

Frodo’s shuddered. “She’ll make me eat cake and spend an hour extolling the virtues of Bluebell’s baking. Don’t mistake me, I like Bluebell, and her baking, well enough” he confessed, “But her mother…” He let the words trail off suggestively.

Daisy snatched the invitation from him, tucking it into her apron pocket. “I’ll give it to Bluebell when I see her next.” She studied her companion for a moment. “You’ve a fondness for Bluebell, I’m thinking.”

Frodo nodded. “She, sort of, grows on you. She’s … peaceful.”

Daisy mused for a moment, before straightening and draining her mug, pausing to pick a stray tea leaf off her tongue. “She’s a nice lass,” was all she said, although Frodo got the impression she had intended to say more. Instead she said, “Off you go. No doubt you’ve other invitations to deliver. I’ll speak to Mari. for you”

Hobbit birthday celebrations, of necessity, extended over most of the day. This was not just because of all the food to be prepared, although there was plenty of that, but because it was considered rude to exchange gifts in public. So it was that a trickle of people arrived at Bag End throughout the morning and Frodo received them, alone, in his study, which had lost the clutter of Bilbo’s day and now contained a larger desk and several tall, and overfilled, bookcases, as well as a comfortable chair by the fire.

The postman even delivered a small parcel, bearing the seal of the Thain, which contained a new waistcoat from Paladin and Eglantine, and an ounce of pipeweed from Pippin. There was the usual package of handkerchiefs and a set of fishing flies from Saradoc, Esmeralda and Merry in Buckland. The Sackville-Baggins did not send presents, despite their living within twelve miles of Hobbiton. As Frodo was not expecting any, he was not in any way distressed by this, although Sam Gamgee took it upon himself to be scandalised on his master’s behalf.

Bluebell arrived just before lunch, shown in by a widely grinning Sam, who retired, promptly, to the kitchen. 

“Happy Birthday, Frodo.” Bluebell held out a small package, wrapped neatly and tied with a green ribbon.

“Thank you, Bluebell. Won’t you sit down. Would you like Sam to fetch you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. Mama is expecting my return soon.” Bluebell’s brown eyes widened as she took in the bookcases. Drawn to the nearest, she reached out to touch a binding, with great reverence. 

Frodo left her to explore as he opened the gift, smiling with no little relief when it was revealed as a bottle of ink, rather than some strange knick-knack chosen by her mother. “This is the perfect gift, Bluebell. I am always running out of ink.”

Bluebell’s features lit up. “I’m so pleased. Mama said you would expect something more elaborate but I changed her mind. Open it.”

Frodo examined the small bottle, which appeared to contain the standard indigo ink. “Why?”

Bluebell giggled and Frodo wished she would do so more often, for it brought colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. “Just open it, silly. Then take a sniff.”

“A sniff?” Frodo complied, smiling broadly when the sharp-sweet scent of lavender filled his nose. “I did not even know it was possible to make perfumed ink,” he declared as he took one last whiff, before carefully replacing the cap and using his blotter to wipe a stray drop of ink from his finger.

“I found it in Michel Delving the last time Papa took us shopping, and thought of you straight away. You said you loved to translate your elvish books.” Frodo was the only person Bluebell ever looked in the face and as she smiled at him now, he found the warmth in her eyes quite beguiling.

“It’s perfect, Bluebell. I hope your Mama is still permitting you to attend my party later?” Frodo found it telling that he had not thought to include Bluebell’s Papa in that question. 

Adelard Proudfoot was a very good doctor and there were no signs that he ever touched his daughter in anger, but there was no sign that he touched her in familial love either. He seemed to have abandoned the task of raising his daughter to his wife. Then, again, Adelard probably had not so much given up the raising of his daughter, as had the task wrested from him by his controlling wife. Having experienced Rosemary Proudfoot’s attitude first hand, Frodo was disinclined to be too harsh on Adelard. 

“I’ll be there. I’ll be walking up with Daisy and Bartimus. We’ll just have to stop once on the way, to drop off little Bell with Marigold Gamgee.” Bluebell gave one last wistful glance at the bookcases before announcing, “I’d better go. Mama will be wondering where I am. Happy birthday again, Frodo.”

After he had escorted her to the door he returned to Sam in the kitchen. Lunch was ready and Sam was adding water to the teapot. “I heard Bluebell leave,” he explained as he set down the pot and joined Frodo at the table. “She’s a nice lass,” he commented, with all the subtlety of a sledge-hammer.

Frodo kept his response neutral, helping himself to some pork pie and a large dollop of mustard. “She is.”

Sam tried again. “She likes you, and I swear you’re the only person in the whole village who’s seen more than the top of her head.”

Frodo found himself smiling. “She has a sweet laugh.”

“And she likes readin’, so you tell me,” Sam pushed, with a teasing grin. “You could do worse, I’m thinkin’.”

Frodo looked up. “Worse?” His blue eyes were wide with an innocence that clearly did not fool his friend for one moment.

Sam rolled hazel eyes in a very fair imitation of his older sister. “She likes you and you like her. My Ma used to say that love ain’t always blue birds and sunbeams.” 

“Love? Don’t be silly, Sam. We’re not in love.” Even as he said it, a small corner of Frodo’s mind stepped aside to consider.

“Ma said, sometimes love is just sharin’ and bein’ peaceful together.” Sam poured tea. “You and Bluebell look peaceful to me.”

Frodo was silent. He did like being with Bluebell. It was like sitting by a calm pool on a warm summer evening, but was that love? And if not love, would it be enough? He pushed the question aside, cutting up his pie instead.

By the time guests began arriving for the party Frodo and Sam had all their preparations made, with a little help from Marigold in the kitchen and Daisy’s husband, Bartimus, helping with furniture removal.

The dining room and parlour were dressed with greenery and the table was surrounded by chairs, only awaiting their occupants to begin the feast that would be served by Sam and Frodo. Once all the guests were greeted and seated the party truly began. There were huge platters of salad foods, savoury flans and pies, cold meats and fish, garnishes galore, buns, tarts, biscuits and a huge birthday cake, delivered from the Hobbiton bakery that morning. To drink there were cordials, fruit juices, cider and a crisp white wine served from fine bottles, bearing strangely lettered labels. For those still seeking to fill the corners after all that there were apples, grapes, creamy cheese and a variety of nuts.

As dusk settled guests adjourned to the parlour, bringing their chairs. Other furniture had already been cleared and many candles were now lit as Sam spread a large sheet on the floor in the centre of the room.

“Hooray!” Bartimus shouted. “Party games!”

Frodo laughed. “What would a Bag End party be without games? I will need six players and I warn you, I have brought bibs, for this one is messy.”

Despite his warnings there was no shortage of volunteers, who were bibbed and instructed to kneel upon the sheet. Moments later Frodo and Sam returned with plates, piled high with whipped cream, which they set before each player.

“This game is called, find the cherries,” Frodo announced. “The first to find all five cherries wins.”

“What’s the prize?” 

“A cherry tart to take home,” Frodo announced and the contestant’s eyes lit up.

“But where are the cherries?” Bluebell asked, to a chorus of laughter, for this was a well known party game in Hobbiton.

“Why, under the cream, of course,” Daisy replied.

“Oh.” Bluebell giggled. “Now I understand. I hope Frodo has lots of wash basin’s standing by.”

At the words, “Ready, set, go!” the contestants set to with a will, to the accompaniment of much enthusiastic cheering.

Bartimus won, to nobody’s real surprise, for he was extremely good at any game which involved eating, a reputation gained during his younger days at Brandy Hall. Daisy tried her best to dodge her husband’s cream covered face, but he eventually managed to kiss her and both had to adjourn to the kitchen, where Sam had already set out several basins of wash water. 

There were several more games and then, with a twinkle in her eye, Hazel Hoarfoot called for blind man’s bluff. 

“What’s the forfeit?” one of the younger lads asked. “A kiss of course,” Bartimus called, waggling bushy brows and earning a playful punch on the arm from Daisy. Delbin, who was perhaps not the brightest of the group, if no less loved for it, frowned. “But what if a lad catches a lad?”

Daisy stuck her hands on her hips. “The forfeit’s still a kiss, Delbin. So you’d best decide whether your goin’ to be chasin’ petticoat or breeches.” She swished her skirts for emphasis, the many starched layers of her petticoats rustling against each other.

Frodo, being the birthday lad, was first to wear the blindfold. Daisy tied it tightly, and spun him about three times, before joining the rest of the players as they dodged and darted about the room. Frodo had a plan, however. He had noted at table that Bluebell smelled pleasantly of roses and he was a hobbit. Hobbits have good noses, being very adept at sniffing out food, so now he followed his. 

All about him Frodo could hear barely suppressed giggles and the crisp swirl of petticoats. He ignored even those who darted in to tap his shoulder or tug his hair, until he found the scent he was searching for and followed it to its source. He caught two slender arms and his reward was a very feminine giggle. 

“You’ve landed one, Frodo Baggins, but you can’t take off the blindfold until you’ve told us who it is,” Bartimus called.

Frodo grinned. “Why it’s Bluebell, of course.”

“Beginners luck,” Daisy insisted as she tugged off the blindfold.

“My eye,” Sam murmured with a grin.

Frodo’s nose had not led him astray and he noted that Bluebell was blushing prettily. “Hands behind your backs,” Daisy insisted, a little more firmly than necessary in Frodo’s opinion. He leaned in, closing his eyes as his lips met Bluebell’s. Soft and hesitant at first, Bluebell leaned closer after a moment, to a loud roar of approval from the other party goers. They both drew back, Frodo opening his eyes just as Bluebell lowered hers. He decided that he would definitely like to try that again, although perhaps without an audience next time.

“Alright, Bluebell. You get to choose the next blind man,” Frodo announced. Bluebell smiled shyly, then Daisy leaned in to whisper in her ear and her smile broadened. "I choose Delbin." 

Delbin was definitely known to prefer the lasses, so it was clear he had not fully paid attention to Daisy’s instructions when he captured her husband. The confusion on his face when he called out Hazel Hoarfoot’s name and the blindfold was whisked away, brought hoots of laughter. For there stood Bartimus, puckering his lips and batting his eyelids. Hazel found it funniest of all, for she had stood next to Barti, deliberately rustling her petticoats at his whispered instruction. Daisy insisted that her husband pay the forfeit, of course.

After that flute and fiddle were produced and the dancing began, and when the dancers were exhausted, others stood up to sing. Frodo was much in demand and his gaze fell often upon the quiet Bluebell as he sang a ballad of star-crossed lovers and perfumed bowers. That was when Daisy demanded a roundelay, which quickly dissolved into gales of laughter as folk, some by now too deep in their cups, forgot which parts they were supposed to be taking. Indeed, there was some discussion as to whether several were even singing the same song.

The party ran on into the wee hours of the morning and it was only when Delbin began snoring in a corner that Frodo decided it was time to end the fun. Daisy and Bartimus walked Bluebell home, having previously agreed to return on the morrow to collect their daughter from Number Three. Other’s drifted away to their own homes, some needing a little help. One or two were too far gone to make it even to the door, so Frodo and Sam provided pillows and blankets and left them to sleep it off on the parlour floor, so Frodo’s home was not finally his own until well after second breakfast the next morning, not that he minded over much. Most declared that Mister Frodo Baggins had most definitely inherited his uncle's knack for knowing how to throw a splendid party.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has caused me to change the work from general, to teen and upward.

October blew in with what Hamfast Gamgee described as, “A bit of a snit”, dumping large quantities of rain and ripping leaves from the trees before they could even consider donning their autumn finery.

Such weather curtailed any opportunities Frodo may have hoped for to follow-up on that birthday kiss. Even simple reading trysts at the tree were lost as the Shire experienced one of the wettest autumns anyone could remember. Frodo was still considering what to do about Bluebell when an equally wet Yule began to loom large, with all the extra planning that entailed. There were presents to be made or purchased, packing, and passage arranged with Tom Carter. Frodo intended to spend this year's celebrations in Buckland and, even with his love of the outdoors, was in no way inclined to walk for three days in the pouring rain.

As the next highest property on the hill, it fell to the Gamgee's to start off the Yule light in Hobbiton, an honour which the Gaffer took on with some pride, despite the throbbing of his arthritic joints. For Frodo, it felt a little strange not to light the first Yule log, and he marvelled at how quickly he had grown into his uncle's footprint. Like Bilbo, there were times when he longed to roam hidden mountain valleys and wide forests, but more often now he enjoyed the simple fields and woods of the Shire. He still found excitement in reading all the elven books that Bilbo had left behind, with their tales of mighty elven warriors, brave maidens and enormous dragons, but through them all he was followed by the image of a pair of soft brown eyes. 

Yule was a grand affair, which Frodo shared with his now tweenage cousin, Merry. Spending time at Brandy Hall, where he had lived for much of his childhood after his parents died, was actually fun. Perhaps time had softened the pain, or perhaps it was the simple acceptance from Bilbo and the Gamgees that had done so. Whatever the reason, Frodo now felt at peace in the Hall, in a way he never had as a youngster. The elders who once seemed so distant or strict were now engaging, and much wiser than he remembered. 

He even spent some time with Freddy Bolger, on the family farm. It was some time since Frodo had mucked out a stable. It was a job usually doled out to a younger Frodo by his Uncle Saradoc, as punishment for some of the lad's sillier pranks. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that he relished the change afforded by hard physical labour, although his shoulders protested for a while. A pitchfork is heavier than a pen, after all. 

A couple of nights were spent camping in the Woody End, but he did not catch sight of any elves, only a cold, which morphed into a heavy cough. Aunt Esmeralda dosed him with various nasty tasting concoctions. Having not been invited on said camping trip, Merry evinced little sympathy, asserting that Frodo deserved nothing less from camping out overnight in the dead of winter. The malady caused Esmeralda to insist that Frodo stay for another month, so it was well into March by the time he knocked at Number Three’s yellow door, to collect the key to Bag End.

It was Marigold Gamgee who answered, her freckled face smudged with flour. “Oh! Hello Mister Frodo. We wasn’t expectin’ you. Your letter must have got delayed in the post.”

Frodo grinned. “No it didn’t. I made good my escape and set out on a whim, when Tom Carter arrived at the Hall and said he would be coming straight back this way. Any letter would have arrived at the same time that I did.”

“Don’t keep Mister Baggins on the doorstep, lass. Tis not just bad manners, tis letting all the heat out the room,” came the Gaffer’s grumpy complaint.

Marigold dimpled a quick smile and stepped aside, so that Frodo could bring himself and his baggage into the dim warmth of the kitchen. “Good afternoon, Mister Gamgee. How are you?”

Hamfast shook his head. “My joints is stiff in this weather. Spring's slow a birthin’ this year. Tis a cold and tidy way from over-river, even in a cart, and you look perished. Mari, lass, get him a cup of tea. You’ll take one of course. The pot’s not been brewed more than a few minutes. And what’s all this about escapin’? I know they’re a strange lot over-river, but I’ve never heard tell of them lockin’ up one of their own.”

Frodo would not think of declining, even though Gamgee tea was something to be treated with respect. Some said it could put hair on even a hobbit chest. As one who had, as a tween, been treated to a glance down Daisy Gamgee’s bodice, he could have assured folk that such was not the case. Not that Frodo, as a gentlehobbit, would dream of saying such a thing, especially when the lady in question was now wed. Bartimus may seem mild-mannered but Frodo had occasion to know that his broad shoulders were born of muscle, not fat.

“I caught a little sniffle and Aunt Esmeralda was reluctant to let me travel.” 

Hamfast narrowed his eyes, taking in the younger hobbit from head to toe. “You look hale and hearty to me, though you never do put on any decent hobbit paddin’ do you lad?”

Frodo grinned as he watched Marigold pouring the thick, slightly cloudy brew, adding milk and honey to Frodo’s taste. “It’s not for want of trying, I assure you. I’m just destined to be skinny, I’m afraid.”

“Aye, well. It don’t seem to stop you catchin’ a lass’ eye. That Rosemary Proudfoot’s been askin’ after you regular this past two month. I’m hopin’ it’s been on account of her lass.” Hamfast winked.

Frodo chuckled. Typically, Bluebell would be shy of asking for herself.

Marigold handed over his mug. “If I’d known you was comin’ I would have set a fire in Bag End’s range. T’will be awful cold in that big place, although Sam’s been keepin’ it aired out, and we’ve set a fire in the parlour hearth once in a while to keep off the damp.” She stepped to the back door. “Just a minute and I’ll send Sam up to do it now. By the time you’ve drunk that he can have fires started in kitchen, parlour and bedroom at least.”

“There’s no nee…” Frodo was too late. Marigold had already closed the door behind her.

Hamfast chuckled. “That lass don’t know when to stop. She must get it from her Ma. The only time she sits down is to do the mendin’. I keep tellin’ her to slow down but she likes to be doin’. How’s yer kin in Buckland? Are they all well? I hear Master Rorymac gets arthritis too. It's been a bad winter for rheumatics, and that's a fact.”

Frodo settled into the rocker that had once been Bell’s and took a careful sip of his brew. He very much doubted that Bell was the only one Marigold took after in regard to activity. Hamfast had been a hard worker in his younger days. “He leaves most of the running of the Hall to Aunt Esmeralda, and Uncle Saradoc sees to the farming, but Old Rory is as sharp as ever. Arthritis may keep him to his rooms, but that doesn’t seem to prevent him from knowing everything that goes on in Buckland.”

Marigold bustled in at that moment, a small tin churn in her hands. “That’s Sam off and I called in at Mister Sedgebury’s for some milk for you.” No sooner had she set it on the large table than she was off again, into the pantry. Her voice drifted through the open door. “We’ve a loaf you can have and butter and eggs to spare. I can cut you a few rashers off this side of bacon too. Tis not much but twill hold you until I go to market tomorrow.”

The Gaffer rolled his eyes. “See what I mean, lad? Sometimes I feel tired just watchin’ her.”

Frodo grinned, calling out, “That will be plenty, Marigold. But were you intending to go to market tomorrow? I thought Monday was your laundry day. I can go into the village myself after breakfast. It will be good to see everyone again, and I can get supplies to replace this food for you while I’m there. In fact, if there’s anything else you need just let me know.”

Marigold arrived with her arms full, and began to load a basket. “I confess I would be obliged if you can manage your own shoppin’. They say 'twill be a dry day on the morrow and you know how rare those have been of late.”

Hamfast snorted. “I don’t know who you’ve been listenin’ to, lass, but if my joints is anythin’ to go by, ‘twill be another wet one.”

Marigold returned to her pastry making, with a sigh. “That’s a bother. I’d hoped to wash some beddin’. I’ll just have to leave it to linens. Have you aught that needs doin’, Mister Frodo? I can add it to ours and ‘twill be no trouble.”

“That’s alright, Marigold. Aunt Esmeralda insisted that all my clothes were clean before she let me go. I’ve only what I wore on the journey.” He waved at his mud splattered jacket and breeches. “These will brush clean once dry so don’t worry about me. It will give me something to do over the next few days. I have been too much spoiled at Brandy Hall.” Frodo brought his attention back to the Gaffer. “Has there been much flooding along the River Smials while I was away. From your comment I assume it’s been raining as much here as in Buckland. The Brandywine was so swollen that the Buckleberry Ferry did not run for most of Solmath.”

“Aye. Twice. And that despite all the lads settin’ too, to clear away any branches and the like from under the bridge. Nobody was hurt, though two of Tom’s ewes drowned; stupid animals, sheep. There’s water to drink in the pond but some of ‘em will still chance the river. Everythin’ s back to rights now, though. Folks in them lower smials is so used to floodin’ that they can empty all out in a few hours, and Tom Cotton is good about lettin’ ‘em store stuff in his big barn. He don’t keep much in the way of cows nowadays; leaves all that to the Brownlocks. So that barn is goin’ to waste.”

Marigold dropped her rolled pastry atop an enamel dish layered with sliced apple, and cut away the edges. “I remember playin’ in there when I were a faunt,” she observed as she began to crimp. “And the Water wouldn’t flood so bad if the Sandymans' opened that mill sluice gate more often when it rains.”

Hamfast frowned. “Now, lass. I’m sure tis not so easy done as that. Even Ted Sandyman wouldn’t deliberately flood folk out.”

Perhaps age had softened Hamfast’s attitude to the millers, but Frodo and Marigold exchanged a speaking look.

By Thrimidge Day the weather was much improved and Frodo had settled back in Hobbiton, with plenty of time to practice his steps, for he had become a leading member of Hobbiton's Thrimidge Prancers. To his surprise, he was also voted this year's Thrimidge King. Surprise turned to warm pleasure when Bluebell was elected his Queen. Whether by the accident, enthusiastic friends, or by Rosemary's machinations, Frodo cared not.

Although a little reticent, on the morning of Thrimidge Day Bluebell took his hand, and the two were crowned with milky May blossom and tender green ivy. “Well, get on with it, lad!” Ted Sandyman shouted. “There's bonfires to be lit before anyone can get down to eatin’.” Although many a good natured chuckle greeted his comment, an uncomfortable undertone made Frodo's hurried peck at Bluebell's soft lips was a little perfunctory. But when he would have leaned in to remedy his haste she gently stayed him, and he had to settle for reclaiming her hand. 

Together, they accepted the long taper from Farmer Cotton and set the two bonfires ablaze. Then they stood back as all the cattle from around and about were herded, white eyed, between the flames. The cattle were hesitant, but their owners were insistent, firmly believing that this annual spring trial bestowed good fortune and fertility on the beasts. Frodo was not so convinced on the matter, but farming folk stuck fast to the old ways. For the most part, animals were herded through with a minimum of fuss, only one particularly recalcitrant bull needing to be dragged by the nose. 

In all, it took over an hour and Frodo bent to whisper to Bluebell, “Thank goodness we don't have to do that with all the sheep as well.” 

She laughed softly, standing on tiptoe to reply in his ear, “And the pigs.”

“And let’s not forget the hens.” Both laughed louder.

“'ear, 'tis only a hono...honerar... Tis only a title; this king and queen thing. Yer not gettin' handfasted!” This from Daddy Twofoot.

Bluebell's fingers unclasped his at once, but Frodo held fast, tucking her into his side and turning to Daddy with a grin. “We were just discussing whether to send you through as well, Alver. I hear you've been walking out with Ivy Burrows of late. Maybe you could do with some good fortune too.”

There was a loud chorus of laughter and catcalls and Daddy Twofoot made a determined wink at the aforementioned lady, who only rolled her eyes heavenward. It seemed Alver would have to work harder for a more favourable response, and he cast a speculative eye upon the fires.

By the time cattle had all been returned to various barns and fields, and everyone else had strolled back to Hobbiton's Party Field, the hawkers had set up their stalls, and there was a mouth-watering smell of roasted pig. Picnic baskets were collected from kitchen tables and cloths spread about the edges of the field. 

The Gamgees had, as always, invited Frodo to join them, and it would have been considered rather odd if the Thrimidge King and his lady did not lunch together. Unfortunately, that meant that Bluebell's parents must also be included. Rosemary settled precisely upon a cushion dropped down for her by her husband, spreading the sunset orange of her full silk skirts about her in such a way that she took up fully one side of the chequered table-cloth, resulting in everyone else having to crowd about the other three sides.

While people helped themselves to pies and pasties, sandwiches, salad and pickles, Rosemary made straight for the cakes. Spreading a fine linen napkin upon her lap, she took a dainty bite from one of those cakes she had contributed to the feast. “So, Master Gamgee, what is it, exactly, that you do for a living?”

The Gaffer frowned, for surely Rosemary had lived long enough in Hobbiton by now to know just about everyone, and what they did or did not do. “I used to do jobbin' gardenin' but my joints aint so good these days, so now I just help Sam at Bag End and look after our own bit of garden.”

Rosemary's lips pursed for a moment, the effect reminding Frodo so strongly of a fish, that he had to take a sip of lemonade to hide his smirk. “So you are dependent upon family, then? You are most fortunate to have been gifted with your own smial in that case. I suppose I must consider myself fortunate never to have needed the charity of others. It is good to see a gentlehobbit like Mister Baggins helping out the poorer folk.”

Of a sudden all action ceased about the cloth. Bluebell's face became deathly white, a tick appeared at the corner of Hamfast's jaw, and it was only the firm grip that Bartimus applied to his wife's wrist that banked the fire in Daisy's eyes. Doctor Proudfoot cleared his throat and stood, extending a hand to his wife, and tugging her so sharply to her feet that Rosemary would have fallen had he not caught her. For the first time in anyone's hearing Adelard Proudfoot's voice developed a sharp tone that clearly brooked no argument. “Come, dear. You expressed a wish to go shopping, and you will have more choice if we do so before everyone else finishes luncheon.” He shot an apologetic glance to Frodo. “I am certain our hosts will leave you some cake.”

Others were clearly still too shocked or incensed to move, so Frodo jumped to his feet to offer a sketchy bow. “Absolutely.”

Initially clearly a little confused at her generally mild-mannered husband's sudden assertive tone, nonetheless, Rosemary soon reasserted her usual imperious air. “Come, Bluebell.” Her daughter darted off in her wake.

Daisy hacked a huge wedge of the plainest cake on the cloth, slapping it upon Rosemary's plate with such violence that it nearly flew apart. “She can have cake alright, and I hope it chokes her!”

“Who, Mammy?” little Bell asked in bemusement.

“Never you mind, and don't go repeating what your Ma just said, lass,” Bartimus replied with a glare at his wife.

Sam savaged an egg sandwich. “Charity, indeed.”

Frodo cringed. “I am truly sorry. Perhaps it would be better if I took the Proudfoots away. I can buy some food and it will take but a few minutes for me to collect cloth and tableware from Bag End.”

“Don't you dare let that...that...” Daisy fished about for the appropriate word but eventually had to settle for, “Person”. Although she spat it with such distaste that she may as well have used the vilest of epithets. “Don't let that PERSON take you away from your friends, Frodo Baggins.” Her swipe at the beetroot juice on her daughter's face, was so unintentionally rough that poor Bell yelped, and Daisy was immediately contrite. “Sorry, Bell love.”

Hamfast was remarkably mild, now that the initial offence had faded. “Aye, lad. With any luck we'll all have finished eatin' by the time they get back from their shoppin'. Then the prancin' will start, and the king and his lady will be needed to lead. Those of us not interested in dancin' will visit neighbours. As I recall, Alver Twofoot owes me a half of cider. I wagered him that bull of Farley Brownlocks wouldn't go through the fire of its own mind, and I was right.”

“Let's not allow Rosemary Proudfoot to spoil our day,” Bartimus announced. “So, did I hear you right, Frodo? Is old Daddy Twofoot really making eyes at Widow Burrows?”

Bartimus' effort was appreciated and the cloud lifted, as they shared good food and speculated on the latest gossip. Whilst Hamfast had taught his children not to gossip about their betters, equals were fair game. As he had predicted, by the time the Proudfoot's returned the Prancing was about to start, and Frodo collected stick and bells to lead. For several minutes the white clad lads twirled and jumped, skipped and hopped, accompanied by the sound of bells about their calves, the insistent beat of a drum and the occasional forceful clack of beribboned sticks. When they were finished Frodo hardly had five minutes to wipe his face and grab a drink, before jamming the ivy crown back on his head and grabbing Bluebell's hand to lead the first dance at the Prancing Pole.

Folk cheered as the King and Queen moved to their places, each taking up a ribbon. Other eager couples joined them to take up more pairs of ribbons and waited, giggling and impatient, for the musicians to strike up. “What will ye have, Yer Majesties?” Farli Grubb called as he tuned his fiddle.

Several voices called out at once. “Criss-Cross!”, “Barley Twist!”, “Ring Around!” 

Farli's brother, Tam, rapped loudly upon his drum. “None o' that now. First weave is always King's choice. What's it to be,” he bowed as low as any courtier, “Yer Majesty?”

Frodo’s blue eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Lovers Knot.”

Whoops of approval greeted his decision. “I hope you know this one,” Frodo murmured to his partner. Bluebell nodded, the band struck up and, ribbons in hand, the dancers began to weave their pattern about the pole. With each circuit the ribbons grew shorter as the prancers skipped in and out, until the pole was covered in a beautiful multi-coloured pattern and couples were gathered in a giggling huddle, tight about its foot. Each lass had her back to the pole, with her partner before her. That's when the audience began to chant, “Kiss the lass, kiss the lass, kiss, kiss, kiss!”

Bluebell's eyes widened. She may have known the pattern but it was clear that this was not the ending she expected. Perhaps this was not a tradition in Frogmorton. Frodo grinned widely, stepping closer to wrap the last of his ribbon about her shoulders to bind them close. Bluebell took a deep breath, then released it suddenly when her soft breasts mashed against the hard planes of her partner's chest. Frodo, of course had been planning this all along.

As he leaned in, Bluebell's eyelids dropped and Frodo joined her, closing out their surroundings. As he had discovered at his birthday celebrations, Bluebell's lips were warm, although at first tightly clenched. Frodo set himself to woo her, wrapping arms about her waist, and was rather pleased to discover that he could link his hands at her back. As he fitted Bluebell tighter against him, nibbling gently at her bottom lip, she softened, opening upon a sigh to allow him to sample the taste of apple cider and peppermint within. 

The sound of applause, along with laughter and not a few whistles, drew Frodo back to himself. Making one last light nip, he drew back. Bluebell's eyes flew open, colour rising as she tried to jump back. At her skittish reaction Frodo loosened the ribbon, and he was relieved to note that some couples were still tightly clinched. He also saw a scowling Honeysuckle Chub lifting the leering Orton Sandyman's hand from her derrière. Not everyone had selected a sweetheart, or potential sweetheart for the dance, and one or two pairs were chatting, or laughing at the antics of others, while they waited for the signal to begin the unwinding. One by one the remaining couples stepped apart, some grinning, some thoughtful, and others just plain relieved. Frodo studied a very silent Bluebell but, aside from a subsiding of her colour, he could guess nothing of her thoughts.

A single chord was struck, and the dancers tightened their hold on the ribbons. The music began again and they retraced their steps, to unwind the knot they had so skilfully woven.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Frodo found no time to pursue any hopes he may have entertained of taking Bluebell aside. At every turn he found access thwarted. She was either attending her mother, chatting with friends or dancing with others, as was the duty of every King or Queen. Young and fit as he was, even Frodo's feet began to ache toward evening, and by the time the crowds thinned and the traders finished packing their wares, he was too weary to seek out Bluebell. If he had considered more closely, he would have noted that Bluebell made no attempt to seek out his company in all that time.

It was several weeks before Frodo encountered Bluebell by the oak tree, beneath a sky as blue as the flower she was named for. At first he simply stood, watching. Although Bluebell had an open book on her knees, her gaze strayed too often to the horizon, as she played with a fine chain about her neck, its end trailing to disappear, provocatively, into her bodice. Not that there was anything provocative about Bluebell Proudfoot’s bodice. He had never encountered a lass so seemingly determined to play down her every charm. Frodo has seen more ribbons on the dresses of lasses with not two copper pennies to rub together. As the doctor’s daughter Bluebell could have had an entire dress of ribbons, but she chose plain linen in pale colours, with hardly a scrap of lace to her petticoats. If Bluebell ever consented to be his, and Frodo was finding that thought intruding upon his mind more often of late, he would gift her with ribbons and lace aplenty.

With a loud cackle, a blackbird burst from the bushes at his side, and Bluebell’s eyes found him. Frodo mentally shook himself, remembering of a sudden Bilbo's exhortation, "Faint heart never won fair maiden, Frodo, my lad." 

“Hello, Bluebell. I have been hoping to catch you here for ages. Have you been busy at home?”

Bluebell stopped fiddling with her chain, adopting what seemed to Frodo a slightly overdone smile. “Mama has been instructing me in re-organising the furniture. She has been feeling a little under the weather lately.”

Frodo resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “I am sorry to hear that your Mama is unwell. I hope she recovers quickly.” He had every expectation that Rosemary's recovery was contingent upon the end of the re-organisation.

The lass’ reply held no hint of guile. “Oh, she is already feeling better.”

Deciding it would be politic not to pursue that conversation, for Bluebell could be a little blind to her mother's faults on occasion, Frodo settled at her side to glance at her book. “A History of the Brandybuck Family? Now, there is an interesting clan. I am related to the Brandybucks. But you probably already know that. Half the Shire is, to one degree or another. Bilbo used to say we hobbits are an incestuous lot.”

“Ince…oh!” Bluebell blushed so deeply that Frodo had to chuckle.

“Bilbo was never one to mince his words…and to spread them thickly wherever he went.” He took pity upon her blushes. “If you’re really interested in the Brandybucks I have a much more scholarly version of the tale at home. I can bring it to our next meeting if you like.” He was relieved when Bluebell did not rule out future meetings, saying only, “I confess, this is a little dry, and I don’t think the author particularly likes the family.”

Frodo laughed loudly. “You have the right of that. Madoc Bolger never forgave Gorbulas Brandybuck for what he saw as the stealing away of his sweetheart, Rosa Bolger.”

Bluebell’s eyes widened. “Stealing away? Surely Gorbulas did not carry her off and wed her by force!”

“Good, gracious, no! Madoc had made certain assumptions regardin the direction of Rosa’s affections, but she only had eyes for Gorbulas. Madoc was blinded by his own wants; as so often happens where strong emotions are concerned. Fortunately, Rosa’s parents were aware of her feelings but Gorbulas just never accepted the situation, and wrote that tome to exact his revenge. I’m surprised any copies are left in the Shire. It was never a popular book.” 

Bluebell grimaced and set it aside, as though it’s very presence offended. “Mama says I should learn more about the important Shire families.”

“Oh? They are just families, like everyone else’s. They have their heroes and villains, lovers and fighters. Although, I confess, the Brandybucks have more than a few adventurers in the mix, and it is whispered that the Tooks' impetuous nature is due to faery blood somewhere in their dim and distant past.”

“Faery? Oh my. Who’d have thought it?”

Frodo grinned. “Well, it's only rumour. There’s no direct mention of it in the family tree. But then, family trees were only written down once hobbits settled in the Shire.”

His companion angled her head. “What are you reading now?”

Frodo held up his battered book. “Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. I’m brushing up on my Quenya syntax. I found a book of elvish tales in a dark corner of the library at Brandy Hall, but it uses a rather complex and more ancient version of the language. I think it may once have belonged to Bilbo. It has some notes in his hand in the margins. Rorymac said I could take it, as nobody there reads elvish.”

“I thought you said elves wrote in syndlin.”

“Sindarin. The elves have been around for a very long time, and have several languages. Sindarin is the one most commonly used nowadays, but some of the High Elves still use Quenya, and many of their songs are still rendered in it. The book I found is a collection of ancient sagas, intended to be sung or chanted.”

“When you’ve translated some, would you tell them to me?”

“Of course. Stories should always be passed on.”

And as simply as that, their relationship rekindled. Bluebell did not initiate any further kisses, but Frodo put that down to the shyness of a sheltered upbringing at her mother's side. In addition, when all was said and done, an oak tree in full view of any passer-by was not the most private of situations for canoodling. That their friendship would blossom into something more, budded hopefully in Frodo’s heart, but he was willing to wait and water. For now, he was happy to sit at Bluebell’s side throughout the warm summer months. 

It seemed no time at all before Harvest Reel came around. This always fell at the middle of September, close to Frodo's birthday. Not that anyone looked upon this as a reason to cancel either event, for hobbits love a party and will attend one every day if afforded the opportunity.

The morning dawned a little misty but, as always seemed to happen on the day of the Reel, the sun came out by lunchtime and preparations began upon the field. By supper time everyone in Hobbiton, and some from farther afield, sat at enormous trestle tables. Much to Daisy’s visible annoyance, the Proudfoot family settled opposite, and Frodo was relieved when she held her tongue. He had taken a chance and at present his toe was touching Bluebell’s foothair beneath the table. He enjoyed watching a blush creep up her neck. For once, she was wearing a dress in a very fetching shade of apple green silk, that enhanced that blush perfectly.

Fortunately, there was no repeat of the calculated insults of the May Day celebration, and the meal passed pleasantly enough, even if the Gamgee’s were a little more reserved than usual. Once everyone had reached the apple and nut stage; “filling up the corners” as Bilbo used to call it, the band began to gather at one end of the large area set aside for the dancing. Frodo jumped to his feet and bowed low. “Miss Bluebell Proudfoot, may I have the honour of leading you in the first dance?”

His action initiated varied reactions. Daisy began a deep study of the table top. Adelard Proudfoot looked mildly surprised, before returning to his conversation with Borden Brewer about the best local spot for fly fishing. Rosemary Proudfoot’s eyes took on a gleam equalled only by the wideness of her grin. Several other lasses around about sighed enviously, for such a romantic gesture was not usual in the West Farthing. Their swains scowled, aware that Frodo had once again set the tone, and they would be expected to pay court to their partners in a similar way for the rest of the evening. Bluebell blinked, and for a terrible moment Frodo thought she would bolt, until her mother nudged her with a sharp elbow, whereupon she arose with some dignity, offering a curtsey as she whispered, “I would be honoured, Mister Baggins.”

Lines were already forming and Frodo took her hand to lead her to the nearest. Such country dances as are popular in the Shire, do not lend themselves to conversation, being more designed to rob the performers of all capacity to breathe. But Frodo did manage to hold Bluebell’s hand as they skipped a length, and even to slip his arms about her waist for a couple of spins. By the time the dance set finished both were out of breath. When Bluebell would have returned to her parents, however, Frodo grabbed her hand and ran for a gap in the hedge.

To be fair to Frodo, he was not the only lad to initiate such a move, nor did Bluebell put up any but the most perfunctory resistance. Behind the hedge was a stand of trees. It was not large enough to earn the descriptor of “wood” but in the darkness it may as well have been a forest, and soon half a dozen couples were lost within its deep shadows. Frodo fetched up with his back to the rough bark of an oak and wrapped his arms about Bluebell’s waist. His clasp was yet loose, for Bluebell seemed a bit skittish, and for several breaths he waited. 

“Bluebell. May I kiss you?”

Her gaze dropped to her feet at once, only to slide away again when she noticed the way her foothair was mussed by Frodo’s earlier attentions. She was silent for so long that Frodo prompted, “Bluebell? If I am moving too quickly for you please say so. I was raised to respect a lass’ wishes in these matters.” Even as he made that assurance he hoped that she would acquiesce. He really wanted that kiss, and perhaps to explore a little more with Bluebell Proudfoot. Their courtship was moving rather slowly for his tastes, as Bluebell blew inexplicably hot and cold by turn. Frodo held his breath.

Her reply was little more than a whisper. “No.”

When Frodo would have released her Bluebell added a flustered, “I mean, no. You’re not too fast.” Her eyes took on a determined gleam as she stepped in to place hands upon his shoulders, and Frodo drew her slightly off-balance to lean against him. 

Their faces now only inches apart, it took only a tilt of Frodo’s chin to bring their lips into perfect alignment. Soon he was lost, for it seemed Bluebell had learned from their last encounter, parting lips to let him to savour once more the taste of sweet apple and peppermint. After a few heartbeats he was even startled, when her tongue began to follow his, and she leaned more heavily. Perhaps Bluebell was not the innocent her behaviour so far had led him to believe. Her breasts were not so closely confined by her bodice that Frodo could fail to be aware of their tips pearling firmly against his chest, and he slid a hand between their closely plastered bodies to brush one, eliciting a tiny gasp of pleasure. 

Emboldened by her response, Frodo trailed kisses across one cheek, finally pausing to suckle at an earlobe. One hand slid the length of her spine, to play seductively in the ringlets at her nape. The other moved south, almost of its own volition, to squeeze gently at one plump cheek through the layers of her skirts. Bluebell sighed, hands beginning their own exploration as she melted, silk skirts fascilitating her sliding against him so seductively that she had to be aware of his body’s growing reaction. Where minds would have urged restraint, bodies now danced to a different tune, following the beat toward a hoped-for crescendo and lost to the world around them. Frodo met no resistance when he slowly bunched her skirts, gliding a palm up the inside of one smooth thigh, to toy with the damp linen and lace he discovered there. Bluebell's fingers dropped to graze the front of his breeches and their conjoined world became a place of need, heat, and shared sighs.

“Buttercup Bolger! Are ye in here?” The strident female voice came from only inches away and the couple froze. “If I find ye with Filbert Grub yer da will tan yer hide!”

There were several startled exclamations in the darkness around them, and one or two giggles. Bluebell jumped back as though stung, as Iris Bolger’s voice flushed couples from the copse like a beater at the hunt. Frodo hurriedly helped Bluebell shake out her petticoats before turning away for a moment, to think cold thoughts and arrange himself as respectably as he could. By the time he turned back Bluebell was disappearing back through the hedge.

Mistress Bolger's arrival was a well-tried tactic at such events, one shared out between the various Hobbiton matrons throughout the evening, to ensure that “canoodlin'” did not result in accidents. Every youngster understood the rules and Frodo grinned unashamedly at Mistress Bolger, as he approached the hedge. For her part, the lady glanced pointedly at the front of his breeches. “Ye'd best wait a few minutes, or attend to that afore bein' seen by other folk, Frodo Baggins. And I hope as how ye and Bluebell did no attendin' to it afore I arrived.”

Frodo had the good grace to blush, his reply properly contrite. “Yes...I mean...no, Mistress Bolger.” 

By the time Frodo rejoined the Gamgees, Doctor Proudfoot and his family had retired, so there was no opportunity to renew his frustrated attentions to Bluebell. He made the most of things, however, offering chaste dances to matrons and younger lasses, and imbibing rather too much ale. In the wee small hours Sam walked his unsteady and slightly maudlin Master up the hill to Bag End, leaving a bucket at the bedside, for it was clear Frodo would have quite the head by morning.


	14. Chapter 14

Bluebell disappeared for several days, not even attending Frodo's birthday party. Enquiries produced the information that she had gone to visit relations in Frogmorton, so he was left alone to consider events at the Harvest Reel.

Sam found him sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, one morning shortly after his party. “Mornin' Mr Frodo. Are you feelin' poorly?”

Frodo surfaced, taking a sip of his tea and grimacing. “Its gone cold.”

At once, Sam jumped to fill the kettle. “I'll brew another. Have you got a headache? Ma used to swear by mint tea for that. I can brew you some if you like.”

“No Sam. I don't have a headache...at least not the sort to be cured by mint tea. Have you seen Bluebell since she came home? Daisy said she arrived the day before yesterday.”

Sam busied himself at the kitchen range. “I haven't seen her but I expect she's catchin' up with things at home. You seem right sweet on Miss Bluebell. Do you want me to pass on a message? I'll be poppin' in to see Daisy later so it would be no hardship to knock next door. Are you sure you're alright? You haven't seemed yourself since the night of the Harvest Reel.”

Frodo flopped back in his chair with a sigh. “I'm fine, Sam. It's just that Bluebell is so shy, and I'm not sure whether I may have overstepped the mark that night.”

His confession was met with a grin. “Barti said as how he'd seen you and her heading into the trees.” Hazel eyes widened. “You didn't...you know...did you?” He handed over a cup of tea.

“We didn't. Although it was a close run thing, I'll grant you.” Frodo swore when he dribbled a string of honey on the table and Sam turned to wet a cloth at the sink.

“Well, Da always warned us lads about that, but I confess I ain't felt the urge to go that far yet, myself. Maybe it's 'cause I haven't met the right lass. Now, Miss Bluebell seems a nice lass, despite her Ma. I don't know why our Daisy is so against you and her gettin' together.” He wiped up the spilled honey and poured some tea for himself. 

Frodo's ears pricked up. “Daisy is against it? Did she say why.” 

Sam coloured. “Oh dear. I wasn't supposed to tell you. Oh well. Tis done. Daisy won't say. She's as close mouthed as Ma used to get sometimes. She just took on that tone she gets sometimes, and said you're not the one for Bluebell.”

Taking his tea with him, Sam headed out into the garden to begin weeding and Frodo was left alone to mull upon that little piece of information. Was he the right one for Bluebell? He'd had his share of encounters with lasses in the past, some of which had certainly gone further than the last one with Bluebell. He hoped he knew the difference between lust and love. He knew lust at least. Was what he and Bluebell shared, love? He thought it was more than lust on his part, but could it be just wishful thinking? 

Now his head really hurt. He grimaced. And his tea was cold again.

Autumn crept in on a sigh, the hedgerows slowly melting from green to scarlet, gold and rust. The days grew shorter but the sky was still blue; a clear sharp cobalt that stung the eyes and whispered lies about warm weather, while morning frost rimed each web and fallen leaf.

To his immense relief, Bluebell was waiting at the old oak a few days later. She smiled shyly as she watched him approach. “Hello, Frodo.”

Frodo bent to kiss her but was presented with a cheek when he would have preferred her lips. He bit back a frustrated sigh. They were in full public view after all. She did gather her skirts aside to allow him room to sit beside her, however. “Hello. Your Mama said that you went to visit relatives. Did you enjoy your time?”

Bluebell's eyes took on a dreamy look for a moment, before clearing quickly. “Yes. Thank you.” She drew her shawl closer against a stray breeze. “It's getting colder.”

“It is. Soon it will be too cold to sit outdoors. It will be a shame to give up our meetings.”

“I suppose it will,” Bluebell conceded, adding, “Mama says that we can meet in our parlour if you like.”

Frodo could vividly picture the scene, with he and Bluebell discussing Elvish poetry, while Rosemary looked on with that smug smile of hers, dropping comments about Frodo living all alone in that big smial and how wonderful a cook her daughter was. Much as Frodo had sometimes daydreamed of sharing his smial with Bluebell, he would rather the process happened a little more organically. Glancing about and finding the area empty, he decided it was past time to broach the topic that had plagued his mind. “About the Harvest Reel.”

His companion dropped her gaze to hands, clasped tightly atop her book.

“If you were uncomfortable with our tryst, please tell me. You seemed very willing at the time but I know that, for my part, matters progressed a little further than I had intended. Against a tree is not where I envisaged making our first such encounter and I sensed I may have been a little too forward.”

Bluebell continued to stare at her hands, the knuckles beginning to show white. “There were two of us at that tree, Frodo. I think maybe we both got a bit caught up in the night.”

“Then, will you forgive me? And may we start again?”

There was a pause, slightly longer than Frodo would have liked, before Bluebell took a deep breath and lifted her face to look at him. “I think I was as guilty as you, but let's start again.”

Taking a deep breath of his own, Frodo smiled. “Thank you.” A sharp gust of wind, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, made him shudder and he noticed Bluebell pulling her shawl closer. “We really need to come up with a solution to our meeting place, however. Let me think about it. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.”

“Then let's go to our respective homes for the present. I can see you shivering and I would not mind going home for a hot cup of tea myself.”

Bluebell surveyed the gathering clouds. “It's going to rain. Maybe that's a good idea.”

For several days Frodo considered their problem. He saw Bluebell at market once or twice. Neither mentioned the night of the Harvest Reel again and his feelings were still confused on the matter; trapped somewhere between hope and sheer frustration. He had little doubt that Rosemary Brockhouse followed all with avid interest, and he had no inclination to continue the trysts with Bluebell under her avaricious gaze. Eventually, screwing up his courage, he knocked upon the door to Dandelion Clocks, a little surprised when it was Rosemary herself who invited him in.

He valiantly tried to shut out the decor as he perched, once more, upon the edge of a chair and accepted a cup of tea. Rosemary settled, straight backed, in the chair opposite and offered what Frodo assumed was intended as a welcoming smile. It bore more resemblance to a cat, waiting to pounce upon an unsuspecting bird. “I’m afraid Bluebell has gone to the bakers. Is there anything I can do for you Mr Baggins?”

Frodo took a sip of the pale, lukewarm liquid that passed for tea in this household. “I hope it comes as no surprise to you to hear that Bluebell and I have become good friends, and perhaps more.”

“Indeed no, Mr Baggins, and you may rest assured that I and Dr Proudfoot are very happy with the event. That our Bluebell should draw the attention of such a gentlehobbit as yourself is almost more than we could have hoped for.”

Frodo decided it would be best to stem the tide of words before Mistress Proudfoot proposed marriage upon her daughter’s behalf, and then accepted upon his. “Yes, well. We have a mutual love of reading. Unfortunately our usual meeting place is far too cold during the winter months, so I have be casting about for somewhere indoors.”

Rosemary hardly let him finish the sentence before jumping in. “Oh, you are most welcome to meet here.”

Frodo smiled politely. “I would not wish to impose, although your offer is very kind. I was actually going to suggest Bag End.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which surprise, followed by a calculating enlightenment, settled upon Rosemary's face. “Alone, in your home?” she asked with a wily smile.

Frodo sought to cut off her speculation at once. “Alone? Oh, no.” 

Rosemary’s smile faded a little and Frodo wondered whether she had actually been entertaining the idea of pushing her daughter and the master of Bag End into a hand-fasting, by foul means, rather than fair. Having once been the unwitting object of such an attempt in his tweens, Frodo was painfully aware that proprieties must not only be observed, but seen to be observed. More and more he came to believe that Bluebell was the one for him but, after the events of Harvest Reel, he did not trust his body to show restraint when his emotions became involved. 

“No. Sam comes over most days to do odd jobs in the house and keep the garden tidy. Of course I know that even he would not be enough to ensure propriety, and I would not wish anyone to believe your daughter was being compromised in any way,” he added hastily. “Sam has a tweenage sister, Marigold. She has been kind enough to undertake some household tasks for me in the past, and I wondered if you would be willing to allow she and Sam to act as chaperones?”

Rosemary pursed her lips. “A tween, you say, and the sister to a member of your staff?” Her mouth was saying the proper things but Frodo saw a shrewd gleam in the lady’s eye. He chose to ignore the way that she continued to call the Gamgee's, 'Staff'. “In some circles it would be seen as a little 'on the edge', if you take my meaning.”

“Indeed I do, and that is why I wished to discuss it with you first. Let me assure you that I would never behave dishonourably toward your daughter.” His conscience tugged a little, as the sudden memory of the feel of his palm against Bluebell's warm thigh accosted him. “If you would rather we not meet under those conditions, I confess I will be disappointed, but I will understand.” 

Rosemary glanced out of the window, where morning sunlight glinted off the many round windows of the large smial atop the hill. “I am certain that all will be well, Mister Baggins. By all accounts you are a gentlehobbit and I trust you implicitly.”

Frodo squirmed inwardly. “I have not spoken to Bluebell yet, not wishing to raise her hopes when I had not sought approval from her parents. Would there be a convenient time for me to speak with her father?”

Rosemary waved his question aside. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll let him know, and Bluebell will be at Bag End tomorrow afternoon.”

Frodo blinked. “I would rather you asked her if she is willing first, if you don’t mind. I don’t want her to think that I have demanded her presence, like some royal princeling.”

“Leave that to me. I shall explain all to Bluebell. Now, would you like a slice of cake? I believe we have some chocolate cake in the pantry.”

Frodo stood at once, handing back his half-finished cup of tea. “Er … no thank you, Mistress Proudfoot. I am already late for luncheon and Sam will wonder where I have got to.”

With a slight moue, Rosemary nonetheless showed him to the door.

So it was that the next afternoon, when Bluebell Proudfoot rang the bell outside Bag End’s round green door, it was Marigold Gamgee who answered. “Hello, Miss Proudfoot. Mr Frodo’s waitin’ for you in the parlour.”

She led Bluebell into the well-appointed room, setting the door slightly ajar as she left. Frodo stood as his guest arrived, feeling a little uncertain. He had promised no impropriety, but he could not deny that memory of Harvest Reel often haunted his early morning dreams.

“Hello, Bluebell. I thought we’d be more comfortable in here, rather than my study, but if you’d like to borrow a book you’re welcome to browse there.”

Bluebell stayed further offers by withdrawing a book from her pocket. “I have this from Papa’s collection. “A History of Bandobras Took”.”

Frodo grinned as he waved her to a chair by the fire. “Old Bullroarer? Now there was a character to rival my uncle in eccentricity. That’s his portrait on the wall.” He nodded to a slightly faded sketch by the window. “Bullroarer, that is. I have one of Bilbo in the dining room, if you are interested in family history.”

Bluebell returned the smile. “I have heard one or two bits and pieces about Mister Bilbo Baggins, but I confess I don’t know all of his adventure.”

Settling himself in a chair opposite, Frodo considered his audience. “If you’re really interested in Bilbo I could recount the entire tale, although it is a rather long one.” He grinned, “And it will definitely take more than one afternoon in the telling.”

Bluebell’s eyes lit up and she returned the book to her pocket. “I’d like that very much, if you don’t mind.”

Frodo decided that it would perhaps not be a bad thing for Bluebell to know something of recent Baggins family history, even if the result may be to frighten her off. She aught to know what she was potentially getting into. “Very well. It all began long before I was born.” He adopted his best, storytelling voice. “Mister Bilbo Baggins was sitting in his garden, enjoying a rather good pipe when he was suddenly approached by a wizard, of all people.” He paused to address his audience. “You understand that encountering a wizard in the Shire is not a common occurrence.”

“Indeed not,” Bluebell replied, eyes widening.

The relating of Bilbo’s story, in weekly afternoon instalments, occupied them for many weeks. Frodo found himself looking forward to their time together but, whilst Bluebell seemed to find great enjoyment in the storytelling, she gave no other intimation of her feelings toward the storyteller. Frodo took pleasure in their cosy afternoon’s by the fire but, more and more, he found it difficult to hold back a yearning to re-ignite flames kindled on that late summer evening. If Bluebell had given any indication that she felt the same way he would have taken the chance but, if anything, she seemed even more reticent than before.

One thing which did please him was that Bluebell seemed more open with him than anyone else, except perhaps Daisy Brockbank. She also proved to have an inquisitive, if untrained, mind. As soon as Bilbo’s tale ended, she evinced an interest in Frodo’s collection of books. So it was that, in the week before Yule, the two of them stood before the bookcase in his study.

Frodo ran a hand along a line of books. “All the ones on this top shelf are in Westron, although some are a little archaic in style, and Bilbo told me several were written by big folk. That means there are some differences in language, when compared to that used in the Shire, but if you have any difficulty I can help.”

As always, the door was left open, and Frodo could hear Sam and Marigold in the kitchen, engaged in some good-natured banter about the number of eggs to put in their mother’s recipe for the Yule cake.

Frodo decided to take his chance. “Bluebell, do you like me?”

“Of course I do, Frodo. I love coming here, talking and sitting together.” Bluebell pulled out a book and perused the first page.

Frodo leaned back against the edge of his desk. “I do too. Do you think there could be more between us?” Bluebell blushed and ducked her head, something that she had not done in his presence for some weeks.

When she did not reply, Frodo sighed deciding to approach the matter, head on. “I have grown very fond of you,Bluebell, more so than any other lass I’ve met in some years. I believe we are good friends but I wonder if there could be more. I think the night of the Harvest Reel showed both of us that we are physically attracted.”

Bluebell’s head dropped further and she carefully slid the book back into place. Her voice, when it appeared, was barely more than a whisper. “Mama says that love can grow out of friendship.”

“And do you believe that?” he asked, straightening. “Because I think it may be growing on my part.”

Bluebell’s hand drifted to her throat, to play with a silver chain there. “I don’t know.”

He gave a wry smile. “Not quite the affirmation I hoped for, but you did not say, ‘no’. May I take that as good sign?” He took a step closer. “Will you allow me to kiss you again, Bluebell Proudfoot? Perhaps that will help you come to a decision.”

Bluebell swallowed and looked up at last. “Yes, Frodo.”

Stepping closer, Frodo gazed into those deep brown eyes and lifted a hand to cup her cheek. Her skin was soft, as he tilted up her face and leaned in to touch his lips to hers…the merest brush. She did not resist, so he tried again, pressing gently this time. There was no repeat of the wild passion of Harvest Reel but Bluebell did respond with a gentle pressure of her own. If her response showed some reticence, Frodo decided to put it down to a lack of experience. No doubt Bluebell’s mother had dampened the ardour of many a hopeful swain. Or perhaps, like him, she was frightened to loose the reins of her passion again.

When Frodo released her, she offered a tentative smile. “That was nice.”

“Only nice?” Frodo grinned. “I must be slipping. We could try it again.”

When he leaned in to steal another kiss Bluebell stayed him with a hand upon his chest. “Sam or Marigold may come in.”

It was a poor excuse, for their voices were still audible in the kitchen, but Frodo decided that it was enough for one day. “Then we had best find you a book to show your Mama.”

One day, not long after Yule, found Frodo bundled up in a warm winter cloak, beneath the old stone bridge. The trout were not biting but Frodo to cast his line into the shadows one more time. Close by the pier he was almost invisible to those crossing, and he liked to sit here, idly listening to the snatches of conversation on the road above. It wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself. It just so happened that the waters within the shadow of the bridge were a good place to fish for trout.

“Opportunities like this don’t come along every day.” Rosemary Proudfoot sounded rather angry so Frodo leaned out a little to see who she was talking to. He could see little, beyond the top of a dark head bobbing away from him across the bridge, but he knew that crop of curls well.

Bluebell’s voice drifted to him. “But Mama…”

“Don’t 'but' me my girl. Frodo Baggins is the most eligible bachelor around here and he’s shown an interest in you. You! Although why he could be interested in such a mouse I don’t know.”

“But, Mama. What about...”

“What’s past is past my girl. It's time you got rid of that chain.” There was a pause. “Oh, don't think I don't know what's on the other end. Frodo Baggins will suit you very well. He's the perfect catch for a doctor's daughter.”

The rest of their conversation was lost on the breeze but its content stayed with Frodo for the rest of the day, and spawned several uneasy thoughts. Not for the first time, he wished Bell Gamgee were still alive, for she always gave the best of advice. Perhaps he could drop in on Daisy before heading home.

Little Bell sat before the hearth, playing with a rather battered doll that Frodo had once gifted to her Aunt Marigold. He smiled at the fond memory as Daisy took her seat beside him on the settle.

“So, what brings you to my door?” Daisy asked, as she handed over a mug of tea.

“Overhearing something that perhaps I should not have,” her guest confessed.

“Ah. Ma used to say nothin’ good came of eavesdroppin’.” She sipped her tea, grimaced, and then stirred in some honey. “So, what’s your eavesdroppin’ got to do with me?”

“It involved Bluebell.”

Daisy’s face grew closed. “I know I’m your friend, Frodo, but so is Bluebell. I hope this don’t involve me breakin’ a confidence…to either of you.”

Nodding, Frodo continued. “If you can’t say anything, I’ll understand. But what I heard worries me.” He took a large swallow of the strong brew to fortify himself. “I was fishing, beneath the stone bridge when Bluebell and her mother happened to cross. They could not see me and I heard Rosemary reminding Bluebell that I was an ‘eligible bachelor’. That’s innocent and probably true enough, but Bluebell seemed to be protesting her mother’s suggestion that she and I should be together.” He frowned. “I rather hoped that Bluebell was growing fond of me.”

Daisy leaned back, setting her cup on the hearth at her feet and taking up her knitting. “You’re taken with Bluebell, aren’t you?”

Frodo could feel the beginnings of a blush. “I am. She’s so gentle and easy to be with. I could imagine sharing Bag End with her.”

“Have you told her this?”

Now the blush heightened. “I have.”

Daisy sighed. “And has she told you she feels the same way?”

“Not in so many words. We’ve kissed once or twice but she never initiates it. I think she is still quite shy. I don’t imagine Rosemary Proudfoot has encouraged many advances to her daughter.”

Daisy’s eyes grew shrewd. “Rosemary Proudfoot is from poor farming folk. There was no money for her dowry, and that can make some lasses desperate. There's rumours from Frogmorton about her courtship with Adelard. Rosemary was a bit of a light-skirt, as I’ve heard it, trying to climb the ladder. She wasn’t the best a young doctor could catch, and there were rumours when Bluebell was birthed too soon after the weddin’. I don’t like to talk ill of folk, but I don’t think Rosemary Proudfoot would think twice at throwin’ her only daughter at your feet, ’specially if that got her into Bag End. You’ve relations among the Thain’s household and the Master of Buckland, and she’d like nothin’ more than to move in those circles.”

Frodo’s blush faded and his heart dropped. “Surely not,” he asked in horror. “I cannot believe any mother would manipulate her daughter so.”

Daisy sighed. “You’ve a lot of book learnin’ Frodo, but even as an orphan you’ve never wanted for coin or respect. Rosemary was the seventh daughter of a labourin’ family, and had little of either.”

Now his heart raced as he processed her words. “You think Rosemary may be manipulating Bluebell into a relationship with me?”

“I didn’t say that, but think on your own life. You like to flirt as well as the next hobbit.” Daisy grinned. “And I’m told you’re better at it than some. But when you were courtin’ our May I didn’t see you so much as touch another lass. You tried to keep quiet your likin’ of May, and I heard folk wonder why you’d gone shy of a sudden.” She paused. “Just like Bluebell has been shy ever since she arrived in Hobbiton, and before she met you?” She jumped to her feet. “There now, I’ve said too much, and I hadn’t wanted to.”

Frodo stood too, his mind in more of a whirl than when he had arrived. Still, he tried to hold on to hope. “Most people have a few romances before they meet the right one.”

Daisy’s lips thinned. “I’ll not say more. This is a talk you should be havin’ with Bluebell.” Her tone clearly implied that he would get no further information from her on this matter.

Frodo mulled upon his conversation with Daisy for several days, vacillating wildly between hope and despair. By the time the doorbell rang, in the next week, he had settled upon hope, and took a moment to comb fingers through his hair and check his hands for ink stains before trotting to answer.

Bluebell smiled as the green door swung open. “Hello, Frodo. I hope I’m not too early.”

“Hello and indeed not.” He allowed her time to dabble her feet in the waiting tray of water and dry them upon the mat, before helping her off with her cloak and hanging it upon a peg. “The kettle has just boiled. Would you like me to make us a pot of tea? Sam has set the tray and the shortbread was freshly made this morning.” A loud clatter from a room to the rear of the smial, followed by raised voices, had him grinning. “Sam and Marigold are clearing out closets in the spare bedrooms. Some of them are rather full, I’m afraid. Bilbo was a bit of a hoarder. But I decided it’s time I donated his old clothes to those that can make use of them. It’s silly to leave them to the moths.”

“I’m sure they’ll be very welcome to someone. My papa gets around a lot. I’ll ask him to look out for people who need them. And, yes, I’d love some tea. It’s cold out today.” Bluebell followed her host through to the kitchen, where Frodo returned the kettle to heat for a moment. Becoming used to Bag End’s large kitchen, Bluebell took down the tea caddy, waiting for Frodo to swill the teapot with the now reheated water. “I ran into Daisy at the garden gate. She sends her regards and a strange message.”

“Oh?” Frodo added boiling water to the leaves in the pot, stirring before Bluebell replaced the lid and transferred it to the tray. “What was the message?”

Bluebell followed him back to the parlour. “She said you’re to remember that ladder. Did you borrow a ladder from Barti?”

Frodo nearly dropped the tray. “Er, no. It’s nothing to worry about. Thank you for passing it on.”

A few minutes later they settled comfortably by the fire and Frodo’s doubts returned. He made one more valiant effort to push them away, nodding to the book in Bluebell’s lap. “So, what do you think of the tale of Beren and Luthien?”

Eyes suddenly brimming with dreams, Bluebell gave a soft sigh before replying. “It’s such a beautiful romance. She loved him so much that she rescued him from the Dark Lord himself. Imagine that? I don’t think I could ever be that brave.” She ducked her head before confessing, “I had to skip some of the story there. It was too scary, and I didn’t understand the bit at the end, about them dying twice.” She clutched the book to her breast. “Oh, but they were so in love.”

Frodo’s heart dropped, for her eyes glowed with a light that his kisses had never kindled. “You don’t think it was wrong then, for the daughter of an elven King to marry a mortal man? There are some that would call it social-climbing.”

Bluebell blinked, dropping her gaze and smoothing her skirts. “I suppose some could, though I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

“And your mother?” Frodo winced internally, for his transition was not exactly subtle and Bluebell clearly loved her mother, despite the lady's faults. He was a little surprised,therefore, when she considered a moment before replying.

“Maybe. I know she says she doesn’t want me to marry a farmer or some such. Mama thinks a farm labourer would be beneath a doctor’s daughter, although I wouldn’t mind, as long as we loved each other like the folk in your book.” One hand fluttered over the chain about her neck, a habit Frodo had always found endearing, but now set him wondering.

Replacing his cup in its saucer, he leaned forward to take the book from her fingers and place it on the floor at their feet. He captured her hands. “And is there someone you love?”

Although she made no attempt to remove her hands from his grasp, Bluebell’s gaze drifted away to the fire, which had dropped to glowing embers. Frodo found it difficult to draw enough breath to make the next declaration. “Because I think I may be in love with you, Bluebell Proudfoot. I had begun to think I would never find a lass in the Shire that I could say that to.”

Bluebell worried at her bottom lip, turning to concentrate rather upon their joined hands than upon his face. The silence stretched on so, that Frodo spoke again, trying but failing, to make his tone light. “It is usual to say something in return when a swain offers you his heart. I seem to have been the one doing all the chasing in this tale. I don't think anyone could accuse me of moving too quickly but do you need more time to consider your feelings? I am willing to wait for you to decide, as long as you are prepared to give me some hope.”

Bluebell slipped her hands from his, to bury them in the folds of her skirt. “I do like being with you and I think we could be happy together,” she replied, so reluctantly that all hope died and a chill trickled through his soul.

He sat back. “But is that enough for you? Happiness is not the same as love, you know. No marriage is happy all the time, that is why it needs love. Do you think you could love me, as you would love a husband?”

Bluebell blushed, now clenching her hands so tightly that the knuckles showed white. “I don’t know. You’ve had so much more learning than me and sometimes that makes me feel a bit like a faunt.”

Frodo waved away what he saw as an evasion. “Learning is not important. If you want to learn, I love to teach, but it’s not learning that holds people together, it’s feelings. I’ve told you how I feel but unless prompted, you've never said what you feel for me.”

“I suppose that’s right. I’ve never seen Mama and Papa talk much about feelings.” She shrugged. “In truth, they never talk about much of anything. I’ll try to do better, if it will make you happy.”

Frodo clenched his teeth in frustration. “You always want to do what makes others happy, Bluebell. Why not tell me what would make you happy.”

Now Bluebell actually wrung her hands. “Me? I’ve never really thought about it. I like being with you. You never shout and you always listen to me.”

He was suddenly tired. “Listening is easy when the other party doesn’t say much. You sit, with that beautiful smile and those soft brown eyes, but other than discussing the books we read, I find I know very little about the inner you.” He offered a wry smile. “It took me some time to realise that, for you are a perfect listener. Goodness knows, listeners are not common in the Shire.”

Bluebell blushed at his compliment, but still avoided his gaze, concentrating instead upon his fine fingered hands, where they grasped the arms of his chair. Even now, her reply was evasive. “I love listening to you. You know so much.”

“To love listening is not to love and I think you know that. I am sorry to keep asking, but I do need to know. Do you love me, Bluebell? Because if you do, that usually leads to marriage and I would want that.” Frodo swallowed back a lump. “Do you see our relationship leading to marriage?” Bluebell’s eyes swung to his immediately and Frodo’s heart stopped. “No. You don’t need to answer. I can see the panic in your eyes.”

When she looked as though she would take flight, Frodo caught her hand again, swallowing back his pain. “It’s alright, Bluebell. I suspected as much. I think I have for some time, but I did not want to acknowledge it.” Now he reached across to feather a finger along the length of chain about her neck. “Does another hold your heart?”

Bluebell sniffed, fishing about in her pocket for a hanky before replying. “How did you know?” She blew her nose hard, then drew in a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Mama says I’m too good to become a labourer’s wife, so I can’t have him.”

Frodo wanted nothing more than to climb into a book, close the cover and never come out again, but he nodded. “And what do you want, Bluebell. Never mind what I want or even what your mother wants. What do you want?”

His question broke whatever dam Bluebell had erected. “I want Digby,” she wailed, burying her face in her hanky. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Marigold appeared at the open parlour door and Frodo hastened to reassure her. “It’s alright Marigold.”

Marigold stood her ground. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Frodo, but given as me and Sam is meant to be lookin’ out for Miss Bluebell, I’d like to hear that from her lips.”

Bluebell, blotted her eyes, before twisting about in her chair. “It’s alright Marigold. I’m alright.” She hesitated and Frodo stepped in, nodding toward the book on the floor by her chair.

“Bluebell loves a good romance and I’m afraid not all romances have happy endings.” With one last nod from Bluebell, Marigold retreated, but there was no resumption of the sounds of wardrobes being emptied.

Bluebell gave one last sniff, then tucked away her handkerchief. “I’m so sorry. Only Mama is so difficult to say, ‘no’ to. Are you very cross with me, Frodo? I didn't want to lead you on. It just, sort of, happened that way.”

She sounded so pathetic that Frodo could not summon any anger. “No. I won’t lie to you. I am disappointed and hurt, but I’m not cross, and not nearly as disappointed as I think I would feel if we were having this conversation on our wedding night.” He added a log to the fire, poking the embers to life. “Tell me about Digby.”

Bluebell tugged at the chain about her neck, drawing it out of her bodice to reveal a pale stone in a simple setting. “His name is Digby Grub and he works on a farm in Frogmorton. Mama did not approve so we met in secret for months. She found out about our meetings just before Papa brought us to Hobbiton. Digby couldn’t just up and leave without a job to go to, so he gave me this, and we promised we'd be true until he could find a way for us to be together again.” She tucked the necklace away once more. “Then Master Grub had an accident and couldn’t work anymore. Digby couldn’t leave, because he’s the breadwinner for his family now, and I can’t go back to Frogmorton without my parent’s approval. Mama would never approve. It was hard enough to beg just a few days to visit my Aunt in September.”

Frodo frowned. “Even had your family remained in Frogmorton, your mother would need to know your secret at some point, if you and Digby were ever to be together.”

“That’s what Digby said, but I asked him to wait.” Bluebell shrugged a little uncomfortably. “I kept hoping that something would happen to change things. But it seems all that happened was that Mama guessed our secret after all.”

“What will you do now?”

Bluebell shook her head, tears threatening once more. “I don’t know, and now I’ve even lost your friendship. I truly didn’t want to lead you on, but Mama just kept pushing and pushing. And I didn't want to break my promise to Digby about keeping things a secret. I said I’d keep silent until the time was right, but it never was.”

Frodo pushed his own pain aside. “You shall have my friendship for as long as you need it, Bluebell. If your secret is out I would counsel that you and Digby act soon. I suspect that once your Mama discovers that marriage to me is not in your future, she will put you in the path of another she deems suitable.” The leering face of the miller’s grandson, Orton Sandyman, drifted into Frodo’s mind and he suppressed a shudder.

“I suppose you’re right and I thank you for your friendship. I haven’t deserved it but I hope to in the future.”

“There is no debt between friends. Which still leaves us with the thorny problem of your relationship with Digby. You are certain it is love?” It was hard for him to suppress a note of hope.

“Oh, yes. I think I will die if I don’t have Digby.” She blushed deeply. “We even came close a time or two.”

That explained much. Frodo tried not to be too hurt, but now he felt somehow obliged to help the star-crossed lovers. “Do you think Digby’s parents could manage without him if he came to Hobbiton for a few days?”

Bluebell’s eyes filled with hope. “I think so. Have you an idea?”

“No idea beyond the simple expedient of making it possible for Digby to meet your father to discuss your future.”

“But what about Mama?”

“Oh, your mother can go hang!” He drew a deep breath. “Sorry. From what I have seen, your father is a reasonable gentlehobbit, who would not stand in the way of his daughter’s happiness. I think he is the key to unlocking this door. As for your Mama, she will be angry whether she finds out about your promise tomorrow or in a year’s time. Bilbo once told me that it is better to get such unpleasantness out-of-the-way, and not waste time and energy fretting about it. I don't understand why you did not just go to your father in the first place.”

“Mama said he was busy and was not to be bothered with such nonsense.”

Frodo only rolled his eyes. In his eyes, the sooner Bluebell got out from under her mother's thumb, the better for everyone except, perhaps, Rosemary.

So it was that, a few weeks later, Digby Grub was invited to stay at Bag End for a couple of days. Despite hoping to find some fault, Frodo discovered him to be an amiable lad, and had to concede that he and Bluebell would probably do well together. Next, Doctor Proudfoot was asked to call, ostensibly to check Frodo for a fever and, after apologising for the deception, Frodo left him to talk with Digby in the parlour. In the spring of 1410 Digby and Bluebell wed quietly on a visit to Michel Delving, and returned to join Digby’s family in Frogmorton. Although invited, Frodo declined to attend the wedding, his bruises still too fresh.

Rosemary Proudfoot did not speak to Mr Baggins for a long time which, were Frodo totally honest, he considered no great hardship. Frodo missed his reading companion however, and sometimes dreamed of what may have been, but by the time summer arrived he was almost back to his normal cheerful self. 

Of course, there were still some who declared that ‘normal’ and ‘Baggins’ remained two words that should never be uttered in the same breath.


	15. Chapter 15

Frodo shuffled into the kitchen, pausing to yawn and scratch as he watched Sam give the range one more poke, and set the brimming ash bucket by the back door. “Morning, Sam.” It was little more than a mumble but Sam grinned over his shoulder.

“Mornin’, Mister Frodo. There’s hot water ready for your wash, if you’ll hand me your jug.”

Frodo rounded the table, swallowing another yawn as he complied. “Am I up early, or are you running late this morning?”

Sam was concentrating on filling the ewer from the boiler, so Frodo had to strain to hear his reply. “I’m sorry, Mister Frodo. I’m only a bit late, but Mister Sedgebury stopped me as I was comin’ up the hill.”

Despite his dislike of early mornings, Frodo grinned. “Some gossip, no doubt.”

Sam stood, setting the steaming ewer upon the table before lifting the lid on the boiler. “I’m thinkin’ you know about Mister Sackville-Baggins bein’ poorly?” He filled an old cracked ewer with cold water from the sink and began to top up the boiler.

“Yes. He’s had a nasty bout of pleurisy for several weeks now. Is he worse? I am not fond of my uncle but I wouldn’t wish that on him.”

Sam paused in his work, biting his lip before replying. “I’m afraid he is. Doctor Proudfoot let it slip to Bluebell, who told our Daisy, who passed it on to Bartimus, who told Arty to tell my Da, where I heard it and was asked to tell you.”

Frodo blinked, as his still sleepy brain tried to follow that chain. “Gracious. Half the Shire must know. Is anyone helping Lotho and Lobelia?”

“Oh no, Sir. We didn’t tell nobody else. Leastwise I don’t think so. But Doctor Proudfoot says as how Mistress Lobelia won’t let anyone but him in the smial. I’m afraid he says, short of a miracle, Master Otho won’t see out the week and he thought family should know. The doctor says they may not want help now but they do need it. He says Mistress Lobelia is strong but, beggin' your pardon, she's no spring chicken.”

Frodo nodded, fully awake now. “And they’ll be too proud to ask, I’ve no doubt.” He lifted his ewer. “It looks as though I am destined for a walk to Bywater this morning. Thank you for passing on the message, Sam.” He added, with a rueful smile, “Perhaps you could pass those thanks back down the line”.

By midday Frodo was knocking upon the door to the Sackville-Baggins residence. The spotless round blue door was opened by Lotho, with the sullen greeting, “What do you want?”

Long used to such a reception, Frodo made an effort to rise above his initial ire. “I heard that your father was poorly and wondered if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Who is it, Lotho?” Lobelia’s querulous voice drifted from deeper within the smial.

“It’s cousin Frodo.” Otho still did not step aside to grant admittance.

Lobelia waddled down the hallway. “Come to gloat, I’ve no doubt!”

Lobelia's appearance displayed to Frodo, as probably nothing else could, the seriousness of the situation. His aunt was, as always, dressed in the finest of clothes, but they were in a woeful state of disarray. She hurriedly stripped off her apron, bundling it up and dropping it upon a chest, but not before Frodo noted the stains upon it. Her foothair was uncombed, stray wisps of grey hair had crept from beneath her cap to plaster themselves to her brow, and the bags beneath her eyes spoke of many nights without sleep. “Not to gloat, Aunt. Never that. I heard that my uncle is very ill and came to offer my help, if you will accept it.”

Joining her son in barring the entrance, Lobelia glared up at Frodo. “And what help do you suppose you can supply?”

Frodo resisted the temptation to walk away, instead shrugging his shoulders. “Whatever you need. I can sit with Uncle Otho, so that you can take a nap, or I can fetch your shopping. Perhaps I could take care of the cooking and cleaning for you. Tell me what you need and I will try to oblige.” When Lobelia’s eyes narrowed he continued. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but we are family, and you should be able to rely upon family in times like these.”

There was a long pause, as his aunt seemed to consider this. Lotho opened his mouth to deliver what Frodo had no doubt would have been a scathing reply, but Lobelia nudged him aside. “You’d best come in.” She stuck her head out of the door, delivering a scowl so dark that a neighbour, who had been loitering by the garden hedge, hurried away. “We don’t want the whole lane to know our business, although that particular pony appears to have bolted at least as far as Hobbiton.”

Frodo bit back a smile as he closed the door behind him, dipping his feet in a tray of not terribly clean water, and rubbing them on a waiting mat before daring to set foot upon Lobelia’s polished floor, although he noted that said floor was presently covered in a fine layer of dust. Lobelia pushed a strand of hair beneath her cap. “Your uncle is sleeping at present, but no doubt you’d like to see him, first.” She led the way to the back of the smial, and poked her head about the door, before opening it wider and beckoning Frodo inside.

The bedroom was to the rear and had no windows, so Frodo was struck first by a strong musky-sweet smell. A solitary oil lamp was turned low, and shadows seemed to crowd close about the the bed, but in it's dim light Frodo could see a small bedside table cluttered with bottles, pill boxes, and jars. He fought not to wrinkle his nose, for there was a pile of very obviously soiled bedding in one corner, going some way to explaining the state of Lobelia’s apron. Otho Sackville-Baggins had always been a robust hobbit, with a forceful character to match. Now Frodo could hardly recognise the unhobbit-like, stick-thin figure of his uncle. He touched a hand to Otho’s where it rested, lax, upon the coverlet. The only sound came from Otho’s rattling breaths and the room almost demanded that Frodo speak in a whisper. “How long has he been like this?”

His aunt swallowed hard before replying. “It’s been three days. He knows he’s near the end and we’re letting him sleep when he can. It helps.”

“I am sorry, Aunt. How can I help you? I truly will do anything that you need.” Frodo nodded toward the corner, “Even laundry.”

Lobelia blinked and, for the first time he could remember, Frodo saw a softer side to his aunt. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. Otho would be mortified if he knew you’d seen.”

Frodo released his uncle’s hand, to take her much smaller one between both of his. “Aunty, what we do not tell him, he will never know.” He allowed himself a mischievous twinkle. “You’d be surprised how proficient I am at laundry. I was taught by an expert. With her large brood there was not a lot that Bell Gamgee did not know about washing sheets.”

His comment gleaned the hoped for response, as a little of the old Lobelia reappeared. “Some people show no restraint. I always said that those Gamgee’s bred like rabbits.”

Frodo chuckled softly, and he gave her hand a quick squeeze, before slipping out of his jacket and pushing up his shirt sleeves. “Lotho can show me to the wash-house, and perhaps even give me a hand.”

When Lotho scowled, Lobelia cuffed his arm before instructing imperiously, “Well, go on, Lotho. And you can make me a cup of tea, while you wait for the copper to boil.”

Frodo remained with his family for three days. Sometimes he did the cooking, ignoring Lotho's snide comments about it not being of a standard he was accustomed to. His aunt ate little. Sometimes Lobelia asked him to help turn and clean his uncle. This was a job Frodo had never done before, and at first he found it messy and unpleasant. Memories of Bell Gamgee surfaced and he gained a new respect for the family, who must have performed this task for her toward the end. Loving their mother so deeply perhaps made it a little less onerous, and Frodo found his attitude to his Uncle Otho changing even as he worked. A little voice pointed out that he would likely never be able to perform this task for his beloved Bilbo, so Otho took his place. Frodo discovered that this thought enabled him to do it with good grace, and even love. 

On the evening of the third day, Frodo was folding laundry in the kitchen when he heard Lobelia's loud wail. He knew at once that Otho was gone but did not intrude, only putting on the kettle to make tea. The tear that rolled down his cheek was a surprise, however, and he had to sit down for a few minutes and blow his nose as he waited for the water to boil. Otho Sackville-Baggins had never been anything other than distant, at best. Frodo gained a measure of peace in helping care for his uncle, but had held some hope of acknowledgement from Otho before the end. That was not to be. Even when awake, Otho had no breath for conversation. Death spared no compassion for those left behind.

Lobelia emerged from the sickroom first, her eyes red-rimmed, but her face composed and her back straight. “Someone will have to organise a coffin. I’ll not have Otho buried in only a winding-sheet, like some peasant.”

At any other time Frodo may have bridled, but now he glanced at Lotho, where he still stood in the bedroom doorway. It was clear from his blank expression and distant gaze that his cousin was aware of little, beyond his grief. Frodo knew what it was to be fatherless.

He poured hot water into the teapot and placed it upon the table, beside the tea-things already arranged. “I’ll go, Aunt. Tom Buckleby’s workshop is behind Bagshot Row, and I can speak to Birky Buckleby on the way. I assume you’ll want Uncle Otho buried in the Baggins family plot? If you like, I can ask Daisy or Marigold Gamgee to help you with the laying out. I know Daisy has done it before.”

Lobelia pronounced the tea too weak, but took several sips as she considered her reply. “That would be best. You can trot back to that pretentiously large smial of yours when you’re done. I won’t need you under my feet all the time.”

Frodo tried not to take offence. He had performed what service he could to the family. If that was not enough, the fault was not his. “What about the funeral supper? Won’t you need help for that?”

Lobelia donned more of her old self with each passing minute. Frodo suspected the layers were only grown for her son, and probably no thicker than an egg-shell. “I shall see to that myself. I’ll not have the affair stinted upon in any way. I shall send Lotho to the bakery in Hobbiton with a list. Indeed, I shall have many things to do once Otho is settled.” Lobelia cleared her throat before adding, “Letters must be written and the will sorted.”

“Are you certain I cannot help with that at least?” Frodo asked, even as he slipped on his jacket. “I can pen a letter as well as the next hobbit.” He refrained from adding that he could probably write one better than some, for he was keenly aware that such was not one of Lotho’s skills.

“Certainly not. Funeral invitations must always be precisely worded, and we don’t want just any old riff-raff from the village turning up, looking for a free supper.” Lobelia waved him away. “Off with you. You may tell Daisy Whatever-her-name-is-now, that she had best make haste to the laying out.”

It took some effort for Frodo to school his tone to the expected deference. “Yes, Aunt.”

The funeral of Otho Sackville-Baggins was a small and dismal affair. Lobelia took great care to invite only family, and even then, only those she approved of. Despite this, the whole of Bywater village lined the lane to the graveyard, to pay their respects. If Lobelia felt no shame at that, Frodo certainly felt a little uncomfortable. One-sided respect was a painful thing. At the wake, Frodo gained what enjoyment he could from renewing acquaintance with some of his Baggins relations, many of whom he had not seen since Bilbo’s departure. He did not stay long, being one of the first to make his goodbyes, before returning to the comfort of Bag End. When he saw the fine meat and potato pie sitting on his kitchen table, complements of Marigold Gamgee, he burst into tears.

Some months later Frodo smiled widely as he took a seat in the Ivy Bush. “Hello, Barti. I haven’t seen you here for a few days. Is Daisy keeping you busy?”

Bartimus Brockbank raised his cider pot in welcoming salute. “I wish. With Arty sick, Farley Brownlock has me and Nedes doubling up, doing his work. I don’t mind a few extra coins, but I'd rather spend time on Little Bell than spend money on food.”

“Sam tells me that you and Daisy are expecting again.”

Bartimus beamed. “We are. Daisy wants a lad, but I’ll be happy enough if it’s a healthy bairn and Daisy comes through safe.” His smile and voice dropped as he added, “Did you hear about poor Fern and Wyd? The bairn was near enough full term when they lost him. I can’t help but worry for Daisy.”

Frodo could only offer support. “I did hear, but the Gamgee’s are a hardy lot. Remember, Daisy’s mother birthed six children.” He decided not to mention the two he knew of, that were lost before they could draw first breath.

“Daisy said the same thing, last evening.” Bartimus took a deep breath. “And if I go on thinking of all the things that can go wrong during the carrying, Daisy says I’ll miss the joy of it.”

“Quite right.” Frodo raised his pot in salute. “Here’s to the health of Daisy and your baby, whether it be lad or lass.” The two touched pots and took a deep swig.

“I do worry about old Arty, though. It’s not like him to take more than a couple of days away from his beasts when he’s sick.”

Frodo giggled. “You are turning into a true worry wart, Bartimus Brockbank. I called in on Arty this morning. That cold has settled on his chest, so I asked Doctor Proudfoot to make a call. He does not seem too worried and left some linctus for the cough.”

“For which you, no doubt, will be paying.”

“I have more than enough money for my needs. Why shouldn’t I look after my neighbours? They’ve looked after me for years.”

“You've a point, there. Good neighbours help each other in whatever way they can.”

Frodo called in at Number One, Bagshot Row, on his way home that evening, not at all surprised when Marigold Gamgee answered the door. “Hello, Mister Frodo. I was just bringin’ round a bit of coney stew. Come away, in.”

Arty’s slightly rusty voice added, “Aye, and do it afore we lose all the heat out that there door-hole.”

Frodo needed no further encouragement, giving a quick amused wink to Marigold as he closed the round portal behind him. “How are you feeling this evening, Mister Sedgebury?”

“I’ve been better, but I thank ye for the doctor’s visit. I’ll be,” he paused to cough. “Be sure to pay ye back when I get my next wages.”

“You most certainly will not!” Frodo insisted. “You’ve done more than a few good turns for me over the years. I’m only grateful for the opportunity to repay you. Speaking of which, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, sir. Young Mari, here got me some shoppin’ and even milked old Clara, mornin’ and evenin’. Ye get on home to yer books and things. I’m doin’ well enough, and I thank ye for the carin'.” His words ended in another deep, wet sounding cough, and Marigold gathered him onto her shoulder like a faunt, patting him gently on the back.

Even after the fit had passed, Arty sat, gasping like a grounded fish, and Marigold’s expression was serious as she escorted Frodo to the door. She leaned in the murmur, “I’ll be spendin’ the night in yonder chair. I don’t like the idea of him bein’ alone if he needs aught. He’s not steady on his feet, though he’ll not admit it.”

“Would you like me stay with him overnight. I know that you have breakfasts to prepare for Sam and your father.”

“Bless you, no. They can fend for themselves, and I’ll milk Clara while I’m here. I don’t suppose you’ve ever done much milkin’.”

“I confess, it’s been a while, but actually I have. I imagine I could pick it up again if needed.”

Marigold's gilded copper brows lifted. “I didn’t know that. Well, I’ve had some practice now, and Clara’s got used to me. I may as well go on with the job.” Her lips quirked. “Besides, it may do our Sam good to get his own breakfast more often. He tells me you’ve been makin’ your own most days. You’re too soft. You’re payin’ him for the work after all.”

Frodo was chuckling as he climbed the hill to Bag End, where he had no doubt Sam had tended the parlour fire and was even now stoking the kitchen range.

Sadly, despite Doctor Proudfoot's best efforts, Arty Sedgebury was not able to shake off his cough. Working for years, out-of-doors and in all weathers, had taken it’s toll on Arty’s heart and lungs. 

Over the next few weeks Arty took to his bed, although he was not short of visitors. A steady trickle of folk, from Hobbiton and the area round about, crossed the bridge to Number One Bagshot Row. Even Orton Sandyman came one day, with a fine soft white loaf from his mother. His pony and wagon nearly mowed down Hamfast Gamgee, but Ham was willing to forgive him, “Just this once, mind you!”. Some folk brought food, the finest calves foot jelly, warming soups, finely minced casseroles and puddings. Others just brought themselves, passing on all the village gossip, so that Arty did not feel alone. Frodo sent Sam down to chop firewood, tend hearth and do any other jobs required. Marigold almost took up residence, to nurse their neighbour.

Frodo learned much about Arty Sedgebury during that time. His neighbour had always been one to keep to himself, but Arty was not so miserly in other ways. Frodo quickly learned that he was not the only one who had benefited from Arty’s help at some time. If a widow needed firewood, Arty would often leave a bundle on the doorstep, without even a knock to allow the recipient to say, “Thank you”. If a family struggled to feed their growing faunts, Arty would deliver a pail of ‘spare’ milk, with the comment, “T’will only go sour. Ye’d be doin’ me a favour if ye drink it”. If a husband was sick, Arty would lift vegetables or deliver a brace of coneys, and many a bent and wizened widow had her shopping carried home. Master Sedgebury would be sorely missed by many people.

When Arty finally slipped away, one sharp winter morning, Aster Tunnelly and Daisy Gamgee laid him out, lovingly, while Marigold stitched his winding-sheet. The whole of Hobbiton followed Borden Brewer’s cart, with it’s shrouded occupant, to a quiet corner of the graveyard. Many a tear fell, and by the time everyone had thrown a shovel of dirt in the grave, there was almost none left for the digger to replace. The little mound was heaped with bunches of sweet-smelling flowers and the wake that followed, in the Ivy Bush Tavern; funded by all, was crowded with tears and laughter by turn, as each person shared their memories of Arty Sedgebury.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins did not attend, and nobody blamed her, for it had been scant months since she buried her husband, but Frodo saw Lotho, standing in the corner for a little while, his face blank. At that moment, Bartimus asked Frodo for a story about Arty, and when he looked back some time later, Lotho was gone. It was difficult not to contrast the funerals of Otho and Arty. The latter was full of the joyful memories of a life well lived, and the former, bare memorial to a life ended.

Two days later Frodo sat at Number Three. Marigold brought the honey pot, then settled on the bench opposite. She waved at a large, important-looking document, upon the scrupulously scrubbed table between them. “What am I to do with a cow?” she asked.

“What you’ve already been doing, I suppose,” Frodo replied with a grin. “You’ve been milking Clara for weeks now.”

Marigold threw back her head with a bright laugh, setting her copper curls dancing. “I thought you said you’d looked after cows. Even I know there’s more to it than milkin’. There’s fodder to be found in winter, and then she’s to be led to pasture in summer. There’s the barn to be cleaned out too. I don’t expect you’ve ever had to do that, Mister Baggins.”

“Cleaning out the barns was one of Uncle Saradoc’s most oft used punishments for trouble makers, and as a youngster I was always a good maker of trouble.” He winked. “I’ve mucked out more than a few barns in my time, I’ll have you know, Marigold Gamgee.”

“I’ll bet,” her father, Ham, interjected from his chair by the fire. Hamfast spent most of his time by the fire, nowadays. He had been struggling with arthritis for some years but it worsened after Bell’s death, as though it had been only her love that held it at bay. “What was that, Mister Bilbo said they called you?”

Frodo adopted a sonorous tone. “The Terror of Brandy Hall.” Then he chuckled, returning his attention to Marigold. “Arty used to take Clara to the Common in summer, so you can continue with that. As for cleaning out the barn, I’m sure Sam will give you a hand. Even I will, if needed. You obviously did not notice, but I helped Sam with it several times over the past weeks. Winter may be more of a problem, as I understand Farley Brownlock used to pay Arty partly in straw and fodder. There's enough fodder and bedding set aside until spring, but you'll have to buy in more before next winter.

Marigold frowned. “Will the coin from selling milk be enough to cover the cost of keepin’ old Clara?”

“Oh, aye,” Hamfast replied. “There’s always a ready market for Clara’s milk. Even old Farley says her milk is better than any from his herd. Arty used to reckon it were because he talked to Clara as he milked.”

“Well, the only talkin' I've been doin' is to tell her to stand still,” said Marigold. “Folk have already been comin’ to the door to buy. I sold all, yesterday, and I’m sure I don’t know how Mister Sedgeburry had enough spare that he could give it away.”

Her father chuckled. “He never had spare, lass. He used to put some aside, special, for folks as needed it. Then he’d tell ‘em it were spare and give it away. You'd honour his memory by doin' the same. He were a good sort, Arty, and he’ll be missed, right enough.”

“We’ve been settin’ aside the coin made so far,” said Sam, nodding toward a small tin, sitting in the middle of the big table.

“Then, perhaps you could walk on to Farmer Brownlock’s, when you do the shopping tomorrow. You can ask whether he will be willing to sell fodder and grain to you next year.” Frodo stood and Marigold escorted him to the door. “It will work out, Marigold. But if it doesn’t, I’m sure Farmer Brownlock will buy her from you, to add to his herd.”

The following spring produced in Frodo a restlessness that made his feet itch to roam and his eyes yearn for new horizons. Rising earlier than usual one morning, he had already eaten second breakfast when Sam arrived to mend the fires.

“Mornin’, Mister Frodo! Am I runnin’ late? I’ll have your water hot as soon as maybe.”

“It’s alright, Sam. I’ve already seen to the range and made my own breakfast.” He chuckled. “I’ve even washed the pots and pans.”

“You’ve left me nothin’ to do, seemin'. Did you want me to tackle a special job?” Sam glanced about the kitchen, obviously expecting to see a pile of laundry or some other task waiting for him.

“Well, I was hoping to walk to the Common with you this morning, and from there, perhaps you'd like to accompany me to Deep Coomb Farm. Mrs Brownlock said that the very nice wheel of cheese that she set aside for me is mature enough now.”

“Are you sure you want to walk all that way, sir? I could fetch it for you.”

Frodo gave a wry smile and patted his stomach. “I could do with stretching my legs. It’s been a while since I’ve walked any decent distance and it’s time I got some exercise. I’m developing quite a paunch.”

Sam looked, askance, at his master’s flat tummy and trim waist. “Well, if that’s what you call a paunch I don’t like to think what the rest of us look like to you.”

Mister Baggins let out a giggle. “You all look perfect hobbits. If I’m truthful, I seem to have acquired Bilbo’s wander-lust, and I’m hoping the walk will go some way to assuaging it until the summer weather sets in and I can go further.”

Sam’s voice took on an edge of alarm. “Further? You’re not thinkin’ of followin’ Mister Bilbo and leavin’ the Shire, are you?”

“Oh no! But there are many corners of our Shire that I haven’t seen, and some that I used to visit with Bilbo and would like to see again.” Frodo bit back a smile when he saw relief flood Sam’s expressive face.

“Well, then, I’d like to walk with you to Deep Coomb this mornin’, and when you’re ready to go further, I’ll be happy to go with you then, just to make sure you’re looked after, like a proper gentlehobbit.”

Only minutes later Frodo and Sam were guiding a placid Clara down the hill. At the bottom they turned across the Water, then strolled through the village, over the stone bridge and on, to the common land, where they turned her loose. Clara joined a motley little group of ponies and cows, grazing on this shared land, and was soon munching contentedly on the first flush of green grass.

Frodo led the way from there, along the lane, with its scattering of smials to their left and cottages to the right. As the number of properties dwindled, he inhaled deeply, lengthening his stride as a bright smile touched the corners of his lips. “I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed walking.”

Sam trotted along at his side. “I wish I’d taken time to eat second breakfast at home.”

“Oh Sam! I had quite forgotten, but cheer up, I know Mistress Brownlock provides very good elevenses.”

“Tis alright, Sir. It was me that chose to come along with you.” He sighed. “I suppose walkin’ is alright, if you get to choose it.”

Frodo’s mood would not be dampened. “Whatever do you mean, Sam? How could you not choose to enjoy walking on a fresh spring morning like this?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but when you know there’s a hard days work at the end of the walk, that walk turns into somethin’ that just gets in the way. If you take my meanin’.”

“But we don’t have a hard days work at the end. We just have to see Farmer Brownlock about that cheese, and then we can come home to a nice, quiet afternoon. I think I may start reading the new book that my Aunt Esmeralda sent last week.”

Sam snorted. “Well, my list is longer. There’s kindlin’ to be chopped for Bag End and Number Three, Clara’s stall needs muckin’ out, Bag End’s front garden is ready for a proper weedin’, and the grass verges should have their first trim of the year. Then there’s taters to be lifted and the lettuce seedlin’s to be pricked out. By then it should be tea-time. After tea there’s Clara to collect from the Common. She’ll need her evenin’ milking, and, if the day’s turned cold, I’ll probably need to chop more firewood. There’s nothin' “quiet” about my days.”

When he saw Frodo’s mouth drop open, Sam could not help but laugh. “Oh sir. Your face is a picture. Don’t you go frettin’ now. Tis not as bad as it sounds and I wouldn’t have it no other way. Ma used to say it was idle hands as got up to most mischief.”

Frodo clapped his back, continuing on along the lane. “I can think of a few times when my Uncle Saradoc would have said the same thing of me. Did I ever tell you of the day a bored, fourteen year old Frodo Baggins, decided it would be fun to hide every ounce of his uncle’s pipeweed?” 

To Frodo's credit, he helped Sam with some of those jobs when they got home, even portioning out a large wedge of cheese for the Gaffer.

Some weeks later Frodo was startled from his kitchen sink reverie by the sight of Sam Gamgee running past the window, followed by a harried hammering at the kitchen door. Before Frodo could respond, Sam pushed it open, dancing from foot to foot on the threshold. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mister Frodo, but if you’ve a minute, could you give us a hand?”

Frodo abandoned his pots and snagged a towel from the line beneath the mantel to dry his hands. “Whatever is the matter, Sam? Is someone hurt?”

“I hope not. Only Clara has gone and got herself missin’. Mari went to milk her this mornin’ and she aint there. We’ve looked on the common and down the lane as far as the bridge, but there’s not a hair nor hoof-print to be seen.”

Frodo ushered his friend out, following him down to Number Three’s back door, where he could see several other hobbits, already milling about. “Don’t worry, Sam. Clara does this every spring. We usually find her nibbling on someone’s front lawn.”

Sam ran a hand through his already disordered hair. “I know, but it feels worse, somehow, when it’s your own cow. I aint never been responsible for a cow before.”

They arrived in time to hear Marigold's worried, “What if she’s been led away by ruffians. She could be dead and jointed by now. Poor Clara.” She wrung her hands.

Her gaffer was more pragmatic. “Nonsense, lass. We’re near dead centre of the Shire. Ain’t no ruffians could get this far without someone spottin’ ‘em. Stop your worritin' and let's get this search organised proper.” Now the calm centre of attention, Hamfast Gamgee began assigning search areas. “Marigold, you go down to the common and have another look. You were in such a flap, you may have missed her. Mister Frodo, would you mind checkin’ all the lanes about the village?” Frodo nodded. “Sam, lad, take yourself up the lane and over the hill, in case she’s wondered that way. Daddy Twofoot, you stay here, in case someone fetches her back, and I’ll check around the Party field.” He flicked his hands as though shooing hens. “Well, off you go, all of you.”

Half an hour later Frodo glanced up toward Bag End in time to see a small party of children prancing down the lane from Overhill. In their centre strode a tall, red-haired, lad, leading what could only be the wayward Clara. Frodo paused at the stone bridge, just long enough to call Marigold, then raced up the lane to join the growing throng.

“Tol! Wherever did you find her?”

Tolman Cotton, Farmer Cotton’s eldest son, grinned. “Old Clara, here, seems to think the grass is greener, the other side of the hill. I found her nibblin’ on the grass verges on the way to Overhill. ‘Twas a good job I was mendin’ that tumbled wall just outside the lane to our farm, or she’d have been half way across the Shire.” He tugged gently on the makeshift rope halter as Clara took his slowing as a sign to snack, and began rasping at the grass verge. “Seems your Clara aint so old she can’t put on a good turn of speed when she’s a mind to. Me and the youngsters had a fair old job catchin’ her.”

At that moment a slightly out of breath Gaffer Gamgee limped up, accompanied by the much lighter of foot, Marigold. While the Gaffer and Sam set too, inspecting Clara for any injuries, Marigold thanked her saviour and Frodo stood aside to watch their encounter with growing interest.

Marigold was gifted with what many a copper-haired maid considered a curse. Her pale, freckle-dusted complexion, blushed easily and Frodo watched the pink flush climb from bodice to brow as she stood before Tol. It just so happened that Tol was of a similar complexion, but years of helping his father on the farm had bronzed him enough to disguise his own flush. While the children pranced a noisy circle about Clara, Tom and Marigold seemed to have completely lost their ability to speak.

Marigold was the first to recover her words, and when she did they tumbled from her lips in a flurry. “Where was she? Thank you so much for bringin’ her home. Is she alright? I don’t know how she got out. She were just gone when I went to milk her. Oh my, she’ll need milkin’ won't she?”

Her words stopped when Tol handed over a covered pail. “She’s alright, Miss Marigold. I noticed she ain’t been milked so I stripped her before bringin’ her back. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want to see her uncomfortable.”

Marigold lifted the muslin cloth, to reveal almost a full bucket of fresh milk. “Oh, thank you! But you didn’t need to bring it back. You and yours would be welcome to it as payment for rescuin' Clara.”

“I don't see that there was much rescuin' to it. It weren’t nothin’, and we’ve a few cows of our own, so we don't need the milk. But I thank you for the offer.”

“Well, she’s lookin’ none the worse for her adventure,” pronounced the Gaffer. “Get her back in the barn, Sam.” While Sam led Clara away, followed by a giggling tail of children, Mister Gamgee turned his attention to Tol, clapping him on the back. “Well, lad. You’ve had a pretty walk and I’m bettin’ you’re ready for a cup of tea and a bite to eat.”

For his part, Tol was still having difficulty tearing his eyes from Marigold’s face and Frodo nudged him gently. The younger Cotton blinked, as though falling out of some pleasant dream. “Aye, sir. But I’d best be gettin’ back.”

“Oh.” Marigold looked quite crestfallen and Hamfast Gamgee winked at Frodo, before taking Tol firmly by the arm.

“Nonsense, lad. Marigold has made a fresh batch of strawberry tarts and we’ve a nice piece of cheese to be tasted. Come inside and have somethin’ to see you on the road home.” He shooed Marigold before them up the garden path. “Go put the kettle on, lass.”

Frodo smiled wistfully, as he watched Hamfast Gamgee gently lead them through the first steps of what promised to turn into a perfect courtship.

A few weeks later Frodo snapped shut the gate to Bag End and began to saunter down the lane. The air was clean and fresh, with a promise of heat later in the day.

“Mornin’ Mister Frodo.”

He turned, to find Hamfast Gamgee sitting on a stool by the doorway to Number Three. “Hello, Hamfast. Enjoying the cool before the sun gets too high?” Frodo leaned upon the garden gate.

“My old joints is partial to a touch of sunshine nowadays. ‘T’was a mild enough winter, I’ll grant you, but ‘twas a wet one, and my arthritics don’t like wet. Are you away to market?”

Frodo held up his wicker basket. “I am. Do you need me to fetch anything for you?”

“No, thank you kindly, sir. Tis pity you didn’t set off earlier, or my Marigold could have got your shoppin’ when she went for ours.” He grinned before taking a long draw on his pipe. “You’d have to wait for it, mind you. I expect Marigold will be doin’ a bit of moonin’ with young Tol Cotton afore she returns.”

Frodo set his basket atop the wall and folded his arms upon the gate, deciding that a bit of gossip was not necessarily a bad thing. “Do they meet regularly, then?”

Hamfast’s grin broadened. “Oh aye. The other day he finally got up the courage to come ask me if he could court her.”

Frodo’s grin echoed his. “I take it you said, ‘Yes’.”

Ham chuckled. “I told him my lasses was brought up to know their own minds. My Bell married who she wanted, despite other’s opinions, and she brought up all ours, both lads and lasses, to do the same.” It was good to see Hamfast talking about Bell, with little sign of the pain that had haunted his eyes for so long after her death.

“She could be a formidable lady. But now you have roused my curiosity. Do I take it that you were not necessarily approved of by Bell’s parents?”

“They’re farming folk, are the Goodchilds. Never owned a farm, mind you, but they’ve always worked on one, and they didn’t think too highly of a poor jobbin’ gardener.”

“Oh dear. That must have been difficult for you.”

“How so? Bell wanted me and I wanted her. We was both of age. Bell just told her Da that she was goin’ to wed me, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it!” Ham shook his head. “Course, I hadn’t spoken more than three words to her by then. She knew what she wanted afore I did.”

Frodo chuckled. “I suspected as much. She always knew her mind.”

“She did that. Tis pity death don’t listen to no-one but himself. If he did, I reckon my Bell could have seen him off.”

There was a silence, as both hobbits drifted in memory, then Frodo gave a little shake. “So, do you think Marigold and Tol will wed?”

Ham blinked the world back into focus. “I reckon so. If you’d asked me that about our Daisy and Bartimus a few years back I wouldn’t have liked to guess, but Marigold is a simpler soul, always has been. She’s got her Ma’s strength but the fires is banked, not sparkin’ up the chimney, if you take my meanin’.”

“I always thought of Bell being more of a steady glow, like May or Marigold.”

Ham let go an explosive little laugh. “You didn’t see my Bell when she was Daisy’s age. All spit and sparks she was.” He winked. “You should have guessed that by the number of bairns we had. We wasn’t born old, you know.”

Frodo fought to contain a blush, drawing the conversation back to Marigold. “When Marigold does marry, I expect she’ll go to Overhill to live. Will you miss her?”

“Course I will. But I’ve had my turn at love and bairns, so I’ll not stand in her way. For the moment I’ve still got Sam, although he’s startin’ to take an interest in lasses of late. I reckon he’ll be off in a few years too.”

“Has he eyes for anyone in particular?” Frodo was hit by a pang of fear, mixed with guilt, for the prospect of Sam marrying and moving away had never occurred to him.

“Nobody yet, but he’s a good catch for some lass. We may not have much coin but the Gamgees has always been well thought of.”

Even as he asked, “What will you do if he moves away too?” Frodo wondered what he would do. It was not so much that he would miss having someone to look after Bag End, but that he would surely miss Sam’s cheerful company.

Ham’s brows drew together in confusion. “Why, I’ll get on with livin’. What else would I do?”

“Does it not worry you, the thought of being alone as you get older?”

“Alone? I’ll not be alone. There’s old Alver next door. He’s partial to a game of shove-halfpenny and a beer, if I’ve a mind to go down the Ivy Bush. Daisy will see I’ve food on the table, bless her, and she brings little Bell to visit regular. No. I’ve no call to be alone.” Ham’s eyes narrowed. “I’m thinkin’ that question has more to do with you than me. Are you gettin’ worried about that?”

Frodo straightened. Was he? “Well, I haven’t had a lot of success with lasses, when it comes to settling down. Perhaps I’m destined to stay a bachelor, like Bilbo.”

Hamfast nodded. “You’ve not found the right one is all. There’s years yet to do that. Just you keep enjoyin’ yourself and, if you keep your eyes open, the right one will come along. You’re a good catch, Mister Frodo, so they’ll come lookin’ for you. Don’t you fret.”

“Yes, well. That didn’t work out too well with Bluebell, did it?” Frodo found that the entire episode still left a bitter taste. “And I’d rather not have another like Fern either.” He decided it would not be politic to mention May Gamgee.

Hamfast waved a hand dismissively. “Not all lasses is like that, and I think you know it. Fern was desperate and maybe I shouldn’t say it but, not the sharpest tack in the pound. As for Bluebell Proudfoot, I think her Pa’s the one to blame there. He should have taken a firmer hand in her raisin’.” He drew a deep breath. “But, there now. Mayhap I shouldn’t be throwin’ snails over the wall at other folks gardens. We’re none of us perfect.”

Frodo straightened. “You talk a great deal of sense, Gaffer.”

“I’ve seen more life than you, young sir. There’s lessons in books, I’ve no doubt, but the best lessons on life is learned by the livin’ of it. You’ve had a couple of hard ones, I’ll grant you, but there’s some good lessons yet to come. You go and have some fun.” He winked. “Sample a few more lips and share a jig with a bonnie lass or two. You’ve time, yet, afore thinkin’ of settling down.”

Frodo picked up his basket with a smile. “You’re quite right. Now, if I don’t get down to the square I’ll have nothing for my supper. It wouldn’t do for me to starve to death before I get the chance to kiss those lips and dance those jigs.” With a cheery wave he trotted down the lane.

Hamfast watched, thoughtfully. “You always used to say he were too thin, didn’t you Bell, love?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of Febobe, who's hurt/comfort fics were enjoyed by so many.

Frodo selected a bundle of parsley, lifting it to his nose to savour the sweet scent, as Hob Goodbody looked on, expectantly. Frodo knew that he had enough parsley in his own garden to make the sauce for his fish, but he also knew that Hob Goodbody had several little mouths to feed at home. One copper penny would buy Frodo a bunch of parsley. That same copper penny would buy milk for Hob’s faunts. “This is just what I need,” he announced, dropping it in his basket and paying the penny. “How is Mrs Goodbody recovering. I haven’t seen her at market for a few weeks.”

Hob’s eyes lit up as he slipped the penny into his pocket. “She’s doin’ well, Mr Baggins. What with our first three and now another, she’s a bit busy at home, so I’ve been doin’ most of the shoppin’ of late.” He offered a good-natured grin. “Not that I don’t get an ear full when I come home with what she declares is a scrawny chicken.”

Frodo laughed. “Congratulations on your new bairn, and please pass on my good wishes to your lady.”

Tugging his forelock, Hob nodded. “I will that, sir.”

Frodo strolled on through the little stalls and tables of Hobbiton's market. Most hobbits had a bit of garden to grow their own vegetables, but some did not. It always seemed rather unfair to him, that those who would most benefit from free vegetables were also those who could not afford to buy enough ground to grow them in. Bag End’s own extensive vegetable plot provided for most of Frodo’s needs, with any excess shared among the residents of Bagshot Row, and sometimes further. Similarly, the contents of many of the tables at market came from someone’s glut of vegetables, bread and meat being supplied by shops bordering the square. A little further along Frodo spotted some carrots, their finely feathered bright green heads proclaiming them newly lifted.

At the next table a couple of matrons started bickering over the price of a brace of coney’s, and curious folk began to gather, as the argument shifted from prices to the exchange of personal insults. Frodo was sufficiently interested to watch for a few minutes. The two were sisters, their feud almost legendary and, as with most legends, it’s source was lost in the mists of time. Frodo doubted even the protagonists could remember its genesis. As the audience grew, Frodo made his exit, deciding to swap the purchase of carrots for some beetroot from his own garden. Jostled a little in his attempts to push through the crowd, he broke free in time to see Orton Sandyman also making good his escape. No doubt he also did not wish to become embroiled in the long running feud.

A couple of hours later Frodo added his chopped parsley to the white sauce, watching it turn a pale green, and bending to inhale the sweet aroma. From an iron skillet he lifted the fish he had caught early that morning, placing it beside a little pile of fluffy mashed potato and the sliced, boiled beetroot. He had even managed to find a couple of carrots in a corner of the pantry. He poured the delicate green sauce over potatoes and carrots, then settled down to enjoy his supper.

Once the dishes were washed, Frodo settled in his favourite parlour chair. Not particularly in the mood for a pipe, he selected a book from the small pile at his side. As the minutes passed, however, he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his reading. Much as he had thoroughly enjoyed his supper, it seemed to be sitting rather heavily. He shifted position, trying to sit up straighter, in a vain attempt to aid the digestive process. Half an hour later Frodo's stomach gurgled alarmingly, and he released a loud and rather undignified belch. Sadly, the relief that afforded only lasted a few minutes. 

He was just about to get up to make a cup of mint tea when a knock at the front door heralded the arrival of Sam Gamgee. Some months earlier Frodo had finally convinced him that he need not wait for the front door to be answered, so Sam bustled in with a breezy, “Evenin’ Mister Frodo. Our Marigold asked me to bring you this apple pie, and I thought you’d like some help bankin’ the range and washin’ your supper pots.” Sam waved a golden crusted pie beneath Frodo’s nose.

It did not have the effect he was presumably anticipating. Frodo’s hand flew up, sending pie and plate sailing across the room, to land with a splat and clatter on the polished floorboards. Then he shoved Sam so hard that the poor chap landed upon his rump, as Frodo dashed past. Moments later Frodo threw open the kitchen door. He managed to make it as far as the compost heap, before dropping to his knees and retching violently, bringing up what felt like every meal he had eaten for the past week. 

By the time Sam’s supporting arms came about his chest Frodo could only gasp like a landed fish, his stomach continuing to cramp, despite now being empty. A flash of heat had sweat breaking out all over his body, followed by a chill so violent that it set his teeth chattering. Then another problem made itself felt. Frodo pushed futilely against his friend's restraining arms, finally managing to gasping out, “Privy!” Sam's restraint immediately became support as he hurried Frodo to the outhouse. 

When Frodo emerged, some time later, body shaking and legs like jelly, Sam gathered him in like a faunt. “It’s alright, Mr Frodo. Your Sam has you, safe. Just you lean on me and I’ll get you tucked up, comfy.” He helped Frodo stagger back indoors, almost resorting to carrying him by the time they reached the bedroom. Frodo would later own to remembering very little of the next few hours. Sam helped him undress, then laid his master upon his side in the warm bed, a basin by his pillow. For the longest time, Frodo’s world became a disturbing amalgam of nightmare and reality. 

“Mine!” A clawed hand snatched at Frodo's chest and he leapt back. Bilbo's dear face morphed into some wild eyed, snarling demon, and Frodo spun about to flee. More hands clutched at him, bearing him to the floor and plucking at his clothes. 

“Mr Frodo! Mr Frodo! Tis alright. Just Doctor Proudfoot, come to see what ails you.” Sam's voice was a lifeline that helped drag him up from nightmare. 

Gulping in a breath, Frodo looked about him. There was no Bilbo, only Sam and Dr Proudfoot. Sam released him, folding back the covers so that the doctor could listen to his chest. Frodo licked dry lips. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

Adelard Proudfoot straightened. “That's alright Mister Baggins. You've a touch of fever. Samwise says you've been having tummy trouble. Can you remember what you ate for your last meal?” As he spoke, the doctor ran careful hands over Frodo's tender belly.

“Fish, potato. Some beetroot and carrots.”

“Is that all? Did you buy the fish today?” Doctor Proudfoot peered into Frodo's eyes, bending closer to sniff his breath.

“I caught the fish myself, this morning. Oh, and I made parsley sauce.”

“There doesn't seem to be anything there that would upset you. Perhaps it is just some stray sickness. It happens. Although nobody else is showing symptoms yet, I shall probably get a rash of callers over the next few days.” Adelard helped Sam tuck Frodo in once more, much to their charge's relief. “Whatever it is, for the moment all we can do is keep you warm and comfortable. I know you don't want to be sick, but you must try and take in as much liquid as you can. Even if you bring it back your body will have time to absorb at least a little.”

“I'll make sure he gets regular drinks, sir.” Even as he spoke, Sam was pouring water into a small cup. 

“Water will suffice, but if you can stir in a teaspoon of sugar and a pinch of salt it would be better.”

Sam was half way out of the door before the doctor could expand. Adelard offered Frodo a reassuring smile. “The salt will help your body absorb the water faster and you need sugar for strength. Don't worry. We'll soon have you well again. Now, you just settle down and try to get some sleep for now.” 

Frodo was only too willing to comply.

He could not breathe...could not even draw breath to call for help. Frodo stared up through cloudy water at the grasping fronds of a giant willow. Something pressed him down and he struggled in vain until hands raised him above the surface and he vomited up a quantity of sweet, salty water. “It's alright, Frodo. You'll feel better in a minute.”

Frodo seriously doubted that. He felt wretched. His throat was swollen and sore and his tummy muscles ached. At the moment he was too hot, but experience told him he would be shivering within minutes. Death felt like a viable, perhaps even welcome, solution at this point. 

Sam wiped his mouth, then offered a cup. Frodo tried to pull away but the cup followed, relentlessly. “I'm sorry, sir, but the doctor said you have to try to drink. I've got a fresh basin here if you bring it back.” 

A couple of sips and Sam settled him down again, tucking covers close when Frodo began to shiver. Fretful sleep claimed him. For a moment he was looking up at a tall monolith, crowned with mist, then he was being dragged down, down, down into crowded darkness.

In lucid moments Frodo was aware of Sam lifting covers away when he was too hot, and replacing them when he shivered; of strong hands supporting him when lancing pain set arms and legs thrashing, and the gentle stroke of a damp cloth, when he had been too weak to demand the chamber pot in time.

Slowly, the dreams became less frightening and, finally, Frodo subsided gratefully into a warm, dark oblivion.

His next awareness was the familiar distinctive tick-tock of the clock on his bedroom mantel. The soft sound of a creaking chair drew Frodo to prize open eyes, which seemed to have been filled with sand, and then glued shut. A faint grey light filtered from around the edge of his bedroom curtains. He must have overslept. 

A persistent throbbing in his head, accompanied by soreness in his gut, opened the door to recent memory. Rolling his head carefully Frodo discover a sleeping Sam, settled in one of the parlour chairs at his bedside. Frodo was loathe to disturb his friend but, as though stirred by some sixth sense, Sam's hazel eyes blinked open. 

When he saw Frodo's gaze he smiled. “Mornin’ Mister Frodo. I must have dozed off. I hope you've not been awake too long. Would you like a sip of water?”

Had he the strength, Frodo would have begged for a gallon bucket of the stuff, but he settled for a trickle that was barely enough to soothe parched tissue. “How long?” Frodo was not at all surprised that his voice was only a croak, or that each word sent stabbing pains through his tortured throat.

“How long have you been sick, do you mean?” Sam supplied another sip of water. “It’s been near on two days since I found you.”

“A fever?”

Sam frowned, although it did not slow his plying a grateful Frodo with water. “Yes and no. Doctor Proudfoot thought it was.” He paused, as though considering his next words. “Then I found the rest of that bunch of parsley you used for your sauce.” His frown deepened. “There was retchleaf in it, Mr Frodo.”

“Retchleaf? How?”

“Well, it looks a bit like parsley, I’ll grant you, but it likes a very different soil. There’s not a chance those leaves could be mixed in by accident in the picking. Bartimus went askin' about at market and found who you’d bought it from. Him and Hob Goodbody checked all the rest of his bunches and they’re all sound. I hate to say this, Mr Frodo, but I think someone tucked them leaves in a-purpose, and I don't believe it was Hob.” He shrugged. “Then again, I can’t think of anyone it could be. Tis a strange goin’ on.”

The jostling of his shopping basket in the busy market, and the sight of Orton Sandyman hurrying away, dropped of a sudden into Frodo's memory. Surely even Orton would not stoop so low? But then, who else?

Sam carried on. “I'm sure I don’t know what to make of it. Tis a good thing you didn’t eat all that bunch, or you’d not be wakin’ today. Aster Tunnelly is the only person that grows retchleaf…says she uses it for purging. Nobody in their right mind would grow it in a garden, where some faunt could find it. There’s none missin’ from her patch, though, so someone must have found it in the woods. Tis good you didn’t boil it or you’d be a goner.”

With each sip of water Frodo felt a little stronger and his headache was easing. “I’m glad you were here, Sam.”

Sam shrugged, smiling a little ruefully. “It wasn’t nothin’. Though I’ve not told Marigold about the pie yet.”

Frodo discovered that, despite still feeling quite unwell, he was able to smile. “When you do, please apologise for me. It was an awful way to treat one of her lovely pies.”

“I was only jokin’. I don’t reckon she’ll be too cross. She'll just be glad to know you're back to yourself. She popped in earlier, to ask if I needed anythin'.” Sam cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Bartimus to tell the Shirrif about that retchleaf. He wants a word, when you’re feelin’ up to it.”

“If you really think it was deliberate I suppose I must. Can we leave it for a while, though?” Frodo yawned.

“Of course, sir. You just settle down for a nap and I'll have a drop of broth ready when you wake up.”

It was two days before Doctor Proudfoot declared his patient sufficiently recovered to deal with visitors. On the afternoon of the third Shirrif Banks arrived, to find Frodo settled in an armchair in the sunny back garden, a rug about his legs and a book in his lap. Sam was keeping himself busy by weeding the vegetable garden, within call, should Frodo have need of him. As soon as he saw the Shirrif he slipped inside, returning with one of the kitchen chairs for their visitor.

“Afternoon, Mister Baggins.” With a sigh of relief, the rather portly Beldon Banks lowered himself onto the seat, mopping his florid brow with a large, green, spotted hanky. “Thank you Sam, lad. That hill’s a fair old climb with my poor knees,” he observed.

“How are your knees, nowadays, Beldon?” Frodo enquired politely. “Would you care for a cup of cider? I’m sure Sam would be happy to fetch some from the cellar.”

“My knees are what they are, I'm afraid. That’s very thoughtful of you, young sir, but I’d best keep a clear head when I’m dealing with Shirrif business.” To emphasise the nature of his visit, Beldon swapped hanky for notebook, and Frodo watched in mild amusement as he made quite a production of licking the tip of a pencil, and leafing through several pages…most of which were blank. Although there were regular elections for the post, few stood, and Shirrif was often an honorary position. In Beldon’s case it had passed down the Banks family for generations. It was likely that he had never dealt with anything more serious than the occasional belligerent drunk or trespassing goat. Beldon cleared his throat and squinted at his notes. “I’ve received a serious accusation from a Mr Bartimus Brockbank and young Sam Gamgee. They say someone has tried to poison a Mr Frodo Baggins.” Beldon looked up to nod at Frodo. “That would be you, sir.”

Despite the seriousness of the occasion, Frodo pinched his lips, in an attempt not to laugh at the Shirrif’s ponderous tone. When Beldon showed no sign of continuing, Mister Baggins cleared his throat. “It would indeed.” Beneath the rug, he pinched his thigh to stifle a giggle when, behind Beldon, he caught sight of Sam rolling his eyes.

Beldon went back to his notes. “That there is a serious accusation, so I had to do some investigating. Doctor Proudfoot says it's possible the sickness was caused by a herb called,” he held his notebook at an angle and squinted. “Retchleaf, and young Master Gamgee says he found a couple of leaves among the parsley on your kitchen table.” He turned narrowed eyes upon Sam as he added, “Of course, there was no-one to witness that they weren't added by yourself, or by Master Gamgee for that matter.”

Sam's jaw dropped open. “Ere! Are you sayin’ I put ‘em there? Why would I want to poison Mister Frodo?”

“That's what I asked myself.” Beldon changed position and the kitchen chair let out a mild squeak of protest. “You’ve no reason I can see to poison your master, and Mister Baggins don’t look like he wants to kill himself neither.”

“No, Shirrif Banks. I am usually quite content with my life, thank you.”

Sam, who had been shuffling from foot to foot throughout the interview, intervened. “Come on Beldon. You know who did it. Everyone knows Orton Sandyman buys the stuff for his grandpa. Old Ryle's been bed ridden these past twenty years and Betony Sandyman uses it to help him purge. Orton was seen at market the same time as Mr Frodo, too.”

Beldon Banks drew himself up, fixing Sam with a stern eye. “What I know and what I can guess from it, is my business, Samwise Gamgee, and I’ll thank you to stop interruptin’ a Shirrif in the proper execution of his duties.”

At a quelling glare from Frodo, Sam subsided into sullen silence.

“Now, where was I?” Beldon consulted his notes again. “Oh yes. I had to consider that, if it wasn’t a suicide attempt; begging your pardon Mister Baggins but I had to look at all sides, then maybe it was just a mistake.”

“It was what first crossed my mind, I must say,” Frodo agreed.

Once more, Sam bristled. “It weren’t no mistake. I know Hob Goodbody, and he’s too good a gardener to mistake parsley for retchleaf. Those two plants don't even grow in the same kind of places. Retchleaf likes shade. Hob's not the one that did it.”

Beldon frowned. “Master Gamgee, I’ll thank you to stop interrupting or I shall have to ask you to leave!”

Sam bent to gather some weeds into a heap, throwing them with such vehemence into his wheelbarrow that several bounced out again.

Beldon cleared his throat to continue. “As it happens, several other folk also vouched for Hob, and I couldn’t see no reason why he’d want to harm you, Mister Baggins. So next I considered who had access to retchleaf. It’s not something you’ll be finding in everyone’s garden. Folks don’t like to think of their faunts getting hold of it. Turns out, in all of Hobbiton and Bywater, there’s only Mistress Tunnelly who grows it.”

Sam looked as though he was about to explode and Frodo shot him a quelling glare, before returning to Beldon. “I understand she grows a lot of the herbs needed by Doctor Proudfoot. On the edge of the village, as she is, her garden is the safest place, and she needs some for her midwifery anyway.” When Beldon lifted bushy eyebrows Frodo shrugged. “I walked out with the doctor’s daughter, Bluebell, for a few months. She often spoke of her father's work.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now.” Beldon looked up from his notes, a gleam in his eye. “Do you hear from her much since she moved away?”

One of the reasons Beldon enjoyed the role of Shirrif was that he was often the first to learn all the juiciest gossip. Frodo was aware of Sam, arms folded and glaring at Beldon’s back, but offered a smile. “Not directly. Although I understand that she and Digby are expecting their first babe in August.” Beginning to tire, Frodo tried to draw the conversation back into line. “Is Aster able to recall who she supplied recently?”

Beldon flicked through his pages again. “Mistress Tunnelly says there’s no sign anyone else has slipped in and picked any, and the only person she’s given any to is…” he made a big production of consulting his notes. “Orton Sandyman. Seems he collected some the same morning you were at market, Mister Baggins.”

Sam could not resist. “Just like I said. And he would have to go through the market to get from Mistress Tunnelly’s to the Bywater road.”

Beldon scowled again but acknowledge the interruption. “I spoke to him and he says he didn’t see Mister Baggins. Seems there was some sort of spat between the Goodbody sisters and he was more interested in that.”

“I remember. I was going to buy some carrots and changed my mind.” Frodo grinned. “The Goodbody ladies often end up throwing things, and on this occasion they were arguing over a couple of dead rabbits.”

“Aye. Things are apt to get messy when they start up. Did you happen to see the younger Mr Sandyman, by any chance?” Beldon asked, licking his pencil again.

Frodo considered. “I do recall seeing him, now that you mention it. He was leaving at the same time I was.”

Beldon made a note, asking eagerly, “Was he near you, at all?”

Remembering the jostling of his basket, Frodo had his suspicions, but he had to acknowledge that they were just that. “I’m afraid I only saw him hurrying away. There was quite a crowd and everyone was jostling everyone else.” He was aware of Sam’s dark expression, but he was not about to accuse anyone of attempted murder, even Orton, without being certain of his facts.

Beldon’s face fell. “Do you have any reason the think he’d want to poison you?”

Here, Frodo did not hesitate. “For my part, I have never deliberately done anything to offend Orton.”

Beldon shut his notebook with a sigh. “Then I don’t see what else I can do, Mister Baggins. I’ve my suspicions, just like Samwise, here. You've made no accusation directly, but I'm thinking you're of the same mind. Still, without evidence I don’t see where we can take it. Anyone living in Hobbiton knows the Sandyman’s have never liked the Baggins’ family, but nobody saw anything.”

Belden's suspicions lifted him in Frodo's estimation. “I agree. We are at a blank wall. Thank you for investigating, Shirrif Banks. You’ve done your best and I thank you for your attention to duty.” He held out a hand.

Beldon stood, accepting the solemn handshake before tucking away notebook and pencil. “You watch yourself, Mr Baggins. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, but I promise I’ll be keeping a close eye on Orton Sandyman in future, and I’ll advise you to do the same. Lets all be thankful that you’re on the mend, and I hope to see you out and about soon.”

Sam escorted him to the garden gate then returned to his master. “That was a waste of time, then.”

“It can’t be helped, Sam. Nobody saw Orton do anything, and, anyway, I am recovering.”

Sam subsided, with a muttered, “Still and all, I'll be watchin' your back in future, Mister Frodo.”


	17. Chapter 17

Just after dawn on a bright summer morning, Frodo rounded a bend on the Bywater road to encounter an interesting scene. A loudly cursing Orton Sandyman, was unloading his wagon. The reason for his bad humour was very clear, for the wagon listed to one side at the back and a wheel lay upon it’s side in the road.

If Orton saw him, he gave no hint of it as he dumped a large sack of flour on an oilskin spread upon the verge. Frodo looked about, with a sinking heart. He was paying his annual courtesy call to Aunt Dora, who always refused to open the door to any callers after noon. Additionally, it was not a market day, which would have seen many folk about even this early. Frodo had passed but one other soul since leaving Hobbiton. If Orton were to have any help, and he would need it, Frodo was the only person available to offer it. Good manners would not allow him to pass by on the other side. “Would you like some help with that, Orton?”

Now the miller’s grandson paused to eye Frodo up and down. “And what sort of help would you be? You’ve likely not lifted anything heavier than a teacup in your life.” He smirked. “Anyway, I hear you've been sick of late.” Dragging the next sack closer, Orton hauled it onto broad shoulders before turning to drop it, in a cloud of white dust, on top of the rest.

Frodo shrugged, determined not to rise to that particular bait. “I’m strong enough, I think, and it seems I’m all you have at present. Even my help will be better than none. You may be stronger but even you can't lift a cart and slide that wheel back on your own.” He dropped his pack and walking staff, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Have you a fulcrum?”

Orton frowned, using an already wilted hanky to wipe sweat and flour dust from his brow. “A what?”

“We’ll use my staff for leverage. I’ll look for a big enough rock to use as fulcrum.” So saying, Frodo leapt over the ditch and began to search the hedgerows, aware that Orton had not yet refused his aid. As he searched he decided that now would be as good a time as any to broach a subject that had vexed him for years. Recent events made the finding of some kind of truce more imperative, before things got even more out of hand. “Orton, why do you dislike me, so?”

Behind him he heard Orton grunt, and the thump of another sack hitting the ground. “Oh, don’t come the innocent with me, Mister-High-and-Mighty-Baggins. You know full well.”

Having found a small boulder, Frodo rolled it down the bank and, with some effort, tossed it over the ditch. “I’m afraid I don’t and I really wish to. If I have offended you I would like the opportunity to put matters right. It's clear this is something more than the old family feud about letter writing.”

“I’d have thought, with your family contacts over-river, you’d know.” Having finished emptying the cart, Orton collected the boulder with much more ease than Frodo could, and set it beside the cart. Frodo handed over his walking staff and Orton spent some moments testing it’s strength. “Don't tell me you don't know how the world works.”

Frodo sighed, rubbing soil from his hands. “In this instance, apparently not. Please explain it to me.”

Orton spun about. “So your fancy uncle didn’t tell you about the 'prenticeship.” When Frodo only frowned he rolled his eyes and continued. “A few years back there was offer of someone from the West Farthing getting an apprenticeship on the big farm at Brandy Hall. Me and Bartimus Brockbank both asked for the chance.”

Frodo’s face cleared. “And Barti got it. But surely you are set to follow your father into the milling business. You do not need a farming apprenticeship.”

“Well, whether I did or I didn’t, Bartimus got the place ‘cause he was your playmate, and no doubt Bilbo-bloody-Baggins put in a word.” Orton nodded toward the wheel. “I’ll lift. You fit the wheel.”

Frodo complied, rolling the wheel into place beside the axle. “I’m sure my friendship with Barti was not the reason for Uncle Saradoc’s decision.”

Orton’s snort of derision became strangled as he leaned upon the lever. The cart lifted slowly and as soon as it was high enough Frodo slid the wheel onto the waiting axle. “Have you got the cotter pin? I’m not sure Bilbo made such a suggestion, and even if he did, I doubt Uncle Saradoc would be influenced by him. His choice was logical when you think about it. After all, what good would a farming apprenticeship be to someone destined to follow the family milling business?”

Orton dropped the cotter pin into place and Frodo tapped it home with a small rock. Together, they grabbed a flour sack between them to hoist it into the wagon “Just ‘cause someone lives in a mill don’t mean he wants to stay in a mill.”

They lifted another bag between them and Frodo had to own that his arms were beginning to feel the strain. He could only admire Orton’s strength in doing the job every day. “You should have spoken to the Master yourself. I’m sure he would have given a sympathetic ear. Perhaps he could have found a place for you the following year.”

Orton’s face darkened, and Frodo suspected it had little to do with exertion. “Oh, he would, would he? You’re a typical Brandybuck, you are. You take privilege as your due and only think of the rest of us when it suits you. I weren’t about to go cap in hand to no Brandybuck. I’ve got pride too, and it's pride that's earned, not birthed into like some folk.”

For a moment Frodo was stunned, then he bent to help with another sack. “Everyone should take pride in who they are, regardless of the circumstance of their birth.” 

Orton turned aside to spit upon the verge.

For several minutes the two worked in a silence punctuated only by the occasional grunt, and the thump of sacks landing on the cart, while Frodo considered his response. “You know, the final word lay with the Master, who knew neither applicant personally. And don't forget, Bartimus is not of a high-born family either. All his folk have been farm labourers for generations. I think you do the Brandybucks a disservice.” Feeling a little peeved, Frodo began to pat flour from his clothing as Orton clambered into the wagon to redistribute the sacks.

“You don’t fool me, Baggins. No doubt your uncle Bilbo told the Master all about my da’s drinkin’. I don’t suppose any thought to consider why he drinks.”

“Well, you never saw fit to tell anyone. There are some things one does not pry into.” 

Orton scowled. “Doesn't one, now? Well, from what Ma tells me, Granda was never what you’d call a kindly hobbit. You’d think being abed all these years would have softened him now, but he lays down the law worse every year. Granda don't bother to keep his voice down. Da’s got to dance to his tune or Granda says he'll leave the mill to some distant cousin, and we’ll all be out on the roadside.”

Orton spread the oilskin over his cargo as Frodo stood, open-mouthed. “I can see that my inheriting Bag End must have rubbed salt in your wounds. I had no idea of your situation. If you had told me about it earlier you may have gained a friend. Life must be very difficult.”

“Tell folk? Tell folk about our shame? Now won’t that keep the gossips going for a few years? I don't need nosy friends.” Orton clambered over the drivers bench and took up the reins. “And if I hear ought about this I’ll know who spread the word, Frodo Baggins.” He flicked the reins on his pony’s broad back and the long-suffering animal raised it’s head.

“I promise that your family situation will not be put about by me, Orton.” Frodo stood back to let the wagon maneuver back onto the mettle of the road.

“Just you see to that. Or I’ll see you punished. You can rely on that.” Orton shouted over his shoulder as he flicked the pony into a fast trot.

It was only as driver and wagon disappeared around the bend that Frodo realised that not once had Orton Sandyman thanked him for his aid. Frodo, sighed. Rolling the stone off the road, he collected his gear and turned the other way, toward Bywater. It was clear Orton's opinions had not been changed in any way and likely never would be.

Frodo set down his teacup as Bag End’s kitchen door opened on well oiled hinges, to admit Sam Gamgee. Obviously unaware that his master was already up and about, Sam started when he spotted Frodo, sitting at the kitchen table. Frodo chuckled. “Good morning, Sam, and happy birthday.”

“Mr Frodo! You nearly scared the daylights out of me. Now, I know I'm not late.”

Frodo laughed. “You most certainly are not late, Samwise Gamgee. You are rarely late. No, I’m the one that’s early. I wanted to make sure I did not miss you today. Happy Coming of Age.” He lifted a carelessly thrown tea towel, to reveal a shallow square box. Sam wiped his hands on his breeches before picking it up. “Thank you Mr Frodo.” Opening it with some reverence, his eyes widening as he lifted out half a dozen bright blue handkerchiefs.

Frodo watched with some satisfaction as Sam rubbed the fine linen fabric between finger and thumb. “These are too good for me, sir.”

“Nonsense! You can’t give them back, anyway, because they have your initials embroidered on them.” Indeed they had. In one corner, in white silk, was the delicately embroidered monogram, “SG”. Frodo’s smile softened. “I know your mother used to make all your handkerchiefs before she died, and that Marigold has been too busy to have time for such things. So I had these made for you. You deserve nothing but the best on this special day.”

Sam replaced hankies and lid. “Thank you, Mister Frodo. I’ll be sure to keep them for best.” He began to pat down his pockets. “There now, I almost forgot.” Fishing inside his jacket, he produced a narrow wooden box, about a hand span in length. Frodo accepted it from him, pausing to examine the crude but clear initial, ‘F’ carved into the lid. Sliding the lid aside revealed a long narrow space and, to one end, a tiny, lidded compartment which opened to reveal a silver pen nib.

“It’s beautiful, Sam. Perfect for transporting pens. Thank you. I shall treasure this.”

Sam’s face glowed with pride. “Tom Buckleby showed me the makin’ of it, but I did all the work. I didn’t dare try hinges but he says if the runners stick a bit at first you’re to spread a bit of beeswax on ‘em.”

Frodo slid the lid closed and open several times. “I shall keep it for when I’m travelling. Thank you, Sam.”

“Well, if you’ll forgive me, sir, I hope you don’t go travellin’ as far as Mister Bilbo did. I’m not sure what my Gaffer would say about me goin’ so far.” As he spoke he collected the ash bucket and dust shovel, and began to riddle the embers in the range.

Frodo appreciated Sam’s assumption that he would be expected to accompany his friend on any excursions. “I don’t think I want to go that far yet. But I was thinking of a visit to Great Smials. I haven’t seen my cousin Pip for a while. Do you think your father will let you go that far? You can call in on your sister and her husband while you’re there.” Sam began shovelling ash and Frodo brought fresh logs, from outside the back door, to rebuild the fire.

“I reckon Da would like that. His joints don’t like travellin’ in carts these days, and May can’t travel in her condition, so I expect he’d like me to go check on her.”

Frodo clapped dust from his hands and selected a mug to pour Sam a cup of tea. “How long does she have to go, now?”

“The doctor at Great Smials says she’s due in another month. Da says he’d rather Mistress Tunnelly was in charge, but May says she trusts their Dr Took.” Sam wiped his hands on a damp cloth before accepting his perfectly doctored tea.

“Doctor Proudfoot was apprenticed to him for five years, Sam. If your Gaffer trusts Dr Proudfoot he can trust old Sigismond. Your sister is in safe hands.”

Sam kept his own counsel upon the matter of doctors, but he could not resist adding, “Well, Mistress Tunnelly could at least have let her know whether t'will be lad or lass.”

Frodo chuckled. “They’ll know that soon enough. And does it really make much difference anyway?”

That afternoon the Gamgees helped carry tables and chairs out into Bag End’s garden. Frodo had offered the lawn for the birthday celebration, as Number Three’s garden was turned over mainly to the growing of vegetables. Soon the hill rang with laughter and merry chatter. 

The only down side of the event for Frodo was the presence of Buttercup Grub. Buttercup had a sweet enough temperament but, since their tween years, she had been a giggling presence on the fringes of Frodo's social life. As time went on he became more and more aware of her attention, although she never approached him directly, only simpering adoringly from a distance. Buttercup or Butter, as most called her, was pleasant enough, but Bilbo once described her a touch cruelly. “Buttercup is a bit of a butterfly brain, Frodo. Pretty enough, but her thoughts flutter from one thing to the next, without alighting for long on anything worthwhile.” Unfortunately for Frodo, Buttercup was a good friend of Daisy, so she was invited and had managed to insinuate herself into the seat next to him.

Determined to make the best of it, Frodo listened politely as Buttercup chattered away in his ear.

“I hear Bluebell Proudfoot-as-was, has just had her first. A boy they say.” Buttercup batted her eyelashes at him.

“I heard the same. I am very happy for them. How is your mother these days, Butter?”

“Ma? Oh, she's fine. She's not due until January. Have you seen Rose Cotton's new dress? Blue doesn't suit her at all.”

“Er. No, I haven't.”

“I do like the new fashion for longer skirts, don't you? They say in Michel Delving they're wearing them almost to the floor. Imagine that?”

“I could not possibly. They must be difficult to work in.” Fashion was truly not Frodo's strong point.

“But so dreamy! Speaking of which, have you tried this cake? Daisy makes a cake as good as her Ma's ever were. Let me cut you a piece.”

“Well, I've just had...” Buttercup deposited a large slice on his plate, with little regard for the fact that said plate contained a small puddle of vinegar from the pickled onion he had just finished eating. “Oh...oh well, thank you.”

Buttercup smiled broadly. Adding a drizzle of cream, which promptly curdled about the edge, where it made contact with the vinegar. “Do you hear from May at all?”

“Only via Sam.” Frodo took up his fork and tried to prize away a little piece of cake that was not soaked in vinegar.

At that moment Sam came to his rescue. “Mr Frodo! We don't have any fiddle but would you be willin' to give us a song?”

Frodo could have grabbed Sam and given him a resounding kiss. “Of course. What would you like? The Lithe Lass, or perhaps Green Rushes?”

“Green Rushes! We can all join in then. And in all my years I've never yet heard the last verse.” Bartimus called from the other end of the table.

“Green Rushes it is, then.” Frodo stood and cleared his throat, never more grateful for the singing lessons Aunt Esmeralda had forced upon him as a youngster.

“Down by the river where the rushes grow, I met a lad with a blackened toe...”

The song was one with many verses, each describing an encounter more ridiculous than the last, until audience and singer alike were helpless with laughter. By the time Frodo reached the end, much to his relief, Buttercup had switched her attentions to Bramble Greenhand.

The following spring a knock at Bag End’s kitchen door, drew a smile from Frodo when he recognised the caller. He pulled the door wide and shepherded Hamfast Gamgee within. “Hello, Gaffer. What brings you calling? Would you like a cup of tea?”

Hamfast snatched off his cap as he entered, dipping his feet in a pan of water to the side, before scrubbing them dry on the mat. “Thank you, Mister Frodo. I’ll not impose too long on your time with the makin’ of tea.”

“You’re never an imposition. Please come and sit by the hearth at least. There’s a cold wind out there today.” Hamfast followed Frodo to the chair closest the fire and his host turned it about to face the warm blaze.

“Still and all, I’ll not need any tea. Though I thank you kindly for the offer.” He held out gnarled hands to the warmth.

Drawing another chair next to his neighbour, Frodo settled himself. “So, what can I do for you, or were you just looking for some company? Number Three must feel a little empty nowadays. Would you like a pipe? I have Old Toby, or Southern Star if you prefer.”

Hamfast’s face lit up. “I wouldn’t say no to a dab of Old Toby, if you can spare it, Mister Frodo.” He fished about in a jacket pocket to produce a battered but still serviceable, wooden pipe, and Frodo handed over the pot as he collected his own pipe from the mantelpiece. When Hamfast had taken a small pinch, Frodo began filling his own, rolling it between his palms first, then thumbing it from palm to pipe bowl in the time-honoured ritual.

Hamfast inhaled the sweet aroma. “This is very kind of you. I’m a mite partial to Old Toby.” He accepted a glowing spill of rolled paper from Frodo and set about lighting his bowl. The spill was crafted from discarded paper, a letter from Frodo’s Aunt Dora, who still felt obliged to lecture the Master of Bag End on how to live his life. When the bowl warmed comfortably in his palm, Hamfast inhaled and then released a fine stream of blue smoke, upon a satisfied sigh. “I’ll not deny I miss havin’ all the youngsters about, and Marigold will be gone soon, too. In truth, tis that I wanted to talk to you about. Although I thank you for the hospitality as well.”

Frodo added his own smoke to the room, relieved that the presence of the cooking range ensured the majority of it was drawn up the chimney. “I hope nothing is amiss with the lovebirds?”

“Bless you, no sir. Our Daisy has everythin’ in hand, and just as well, for I don’t know nothin’ about arrangin’ wedding breakfasts and the like.” His gaze grew distant for a moment. “My Bell used to see to all that. I know you’ve already been right generous, but there was somethin’ more we was wonderin’ if you could help with.”

When he did not continue, Frodo realised that some reassurance was required. “Anything, Gaffer. If it is within my power it’s yours. You know I have always thought of myself as part of your family.”

“Thank you. Well, see, my garden is given over mainly to vegetables. There’s just that wee bit at the front door, that my Bell kept for flowers and I’ve not had the heart to dig it up, but there ain’t enough, you see?”

Frodo frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t see, Gaffer. Did you want some of my garden to extend your flower beds?”

“Nay! I’ve all on tendin’ what garden I’ve got and I won’t ask no more of Sam. We wasn’t thinkin’ so much of garden, as of flowers. Daisy has it in her head that she’d like to dress the weddin’ arch with lots of flowers, as well as ivy. Blessed if I know why. Ivy has always been good enough for weddin’s in Hobbiton, and Marigold don’t seem that bothered. But Daisy says she had flowers and nothin’ will suit her but that her little sister have 'em too. You know how she is when she gets a bee in her bonnet.”

Frodo chuckled. “I do, indeed. But don’t worry yourself about it. Tell Daisy and Marigold that they are welcome to cut any flowers from my garden that they wish, including whatever roses are in bloom. They can take the lot if they need them.” He used his pipe stem to point at the window, beyond which the apple tree was shedding it’s blossom in the tail end of a late spring gale. “Assuming this wind leaves us any flowers to cut.”

Hamfast shook his head, announcing sagely, “Oh, tis just spring’s last spat. ‘Twill be bright and fine tomorrow.”

Frodo knew better than to challenge Hamfast Gamgee’s weather sense. “That’s settled, then. Now, I accidentally bought an ounce of Southern Star last week, thinking I had none at home. It will dry out before I get to smoke it, for you know I prefer Old Toby. You would be doing me a great favour by allowing me to gift it to you, otherwise it will only go to waste.”

Ham’s eyes gleamed. “Are you sure you can spare it, Mister Frodo?” The Gaffer was not so easily fooled and knew that Frodo Baggins could easily find a place to store such bounty, without it coming to any harm.

“Oh, indeed. I don’t know what came over me. It was a silly thing to do and you would be helping me save face.”

It was a game that the Gamgee and Baggins family had played for many years, both sides conducting a hidden conversation beneath their words. Southern Star was the Gaffer's usual brand, Old Toby being too rich for his limited budget. “Then I thank you, kindly, Mister Frodo. It wouldn’t do to waste fine pipeweed.”

Frodo grinned. He would have to remember to add a couple of ounces to his shopping list tomorrow, to replace it.

So it was, that a few weeks later Bag End's garden looked rather denuded, but the party field was draped in an abundance of early summer, floral finery.

“Tis a lovely weddin’, aint it?” Hamfast Gamgee’s words were a little slurred, having been filtered through several halves of Bordon Brewer’s best ale.

“It is. Daisy did a splendid job of putting it all together,” Frodo replied as he cast an appreciative eye over the Party Field. He had slipped a small bag of coin into Hamfast’s hand as soon as he heard of Marigold’s betrothal. Hamfast had made to refuse, as Frodo knew he would. Then Frodo had pointed out once more, how the Gamgee’s had always felt like family to him, and he would like to contribute to his ‘sister’s’ wedding. Thus mollified, Hamfast had accepted the coin with grace.

The field was full to capacity. At it’s heart, an area was kept clear for dancers, who were at present making exuberant use of the space, their feet filling the air with the sweet-sour smell of crushed grass. Around the edges several trestle tables accommodated the eaters, drinkers, and talkers, of which there were plenty, and strings of squealing children threaded their giddy way about the tables. The Gamgee clan was a large one and their circle of friends wide enough to encompass all Hobbiton and most of Bywater. As always happened at such outdoor events, other folk had turned up as well, for hobbits were ever ready for a party, and it was tacitly understood that as long as you contributed to the food or drink you were welcome. 

The bride and groom were twirling with the dancers and Frodo spotted Sam, politely leading out the groom’s sister, Rose Cotton. Frodo mused that of all Bell Gamgee’s children, only Sam was now unattached. Orton Sandyman had not been invited but now danced in the same set as Sam, partnering the timid and now flustered Buttercup Grub. She was flustered because Orton made so many wrong turns that Frodo began to wonder whether he was doing it deliberately, to disrupt the set. The other couples simply worked around him, but Buttercup looked close to tears.

Daisy sat at a table to Frodo’s left, conversing deeply with Periwinkle Chub. At one time Periwinkle and Daisy had been bitter rivals for Bartimus’ affections, but now they were the best of friends, and Frodo was trying very hard to avoid hearing the advice Daisy was offering Periwinkle, on the perils of breast feeding. Bartimus had only ever had eyes for Daisy, and now Frodo spotted him, with young Bell drowsily draped over one shoulder, and the already sleeping Ashlee in the crook of his other arm. He was obviously taking them to the quiet corner set aside for youngsters, tended in rotation by a group of Hobbiton matrons.

Most of the rest of the Gamgee clan sprinkled the dancers, all but Halfred having made the journey home, to see their youngest sister wed. Halfred and his wife were expecting a bairn any day now, so travelling was out of the question.

With a final flourish, the dance ended and grinning lads escorted glowing lasses from the clearing. Frodo studied the barely touched mug of beer in his hands, feeling a little morose, and started when a small hand tapped him firmly upon the shoulder. He looked up into the smiling face of May Gamgee … Overhill, Frodo remembered with a pang of sadness, for he had once entertained the hope of marrying May Gamgee.

“Come on, Frodo.” May was one of the only two Gamgee family members who dropped the honorific, ‘Mister’. “I’ve watched you hugging that pot of beer for an hour now. Tis time you danced. I’ll not have such a long face at my little sister’s weddin’.”

Frodo blinked, feeling immediately contrite. “Oh dear. Did I look that bad? I didn’t intend to.”

“No you didn’t lad,” Hamfast assured him from her side. “Our May is just yankin’ your rope. But tis time you took a spin about the green.” He winked. “All the lasses like to dance with Frodo Baggins, as I hear it.”

While Frodo took a deep swig of his beer, May Overhill laughed merrily. “They do that. I’ll be the envy of the line.” She made to tug him to his feet, using it as an excuse to lean in and whisper, “And how’s a lass to think of catching the handsome Mister Baggins if she don’t see him at his best? As I hear it, you’ve been keeping too much of your own company since Bluebell Proudfoot wed.”

Frodo gave a rueful grimace, but allowed her to lead him to the dance area, where a small band struck up the Cotters Reel. At first he paid little attention, beyond taking the right steps, but as he spun other lasses about he began to notice more than a few inviting glances, and by the end he was laughing with the rest. He made a gallant point of tucking May’s arm in his as he escorted her back to her husband.

“I thank you for the loan of your lovely lady, Master Overhill.” He winked at May as he gave a bow to her husband.

May laughed prettily, even as Erling jumped to his feet to return the formal bow. May dragged her husband down into his seat again. “Pay him no mind, love. He’s repaying me for dragging him off to the dancing, without waitin’ for him to come ask me.” She glanced knowingly about them. “It worked, though.”

Sure enough, there were several lasses, standing about them in little gaggles, some feigning the settling of petticoats and others openly watching Frodo. May beckoned him down to whisper, “You’d best choose one quick. None of the other lads are goin’ to find a partner until you do.”

Frodo’s eyes roved about the bevy of lasses, causing another flurry of petticoat shaking and curl patting. Catching sight of Orton, making a bee line for Buttercup again, Frodo stepped up at once, giving the lass a small bow. “Would you care to join me for the next dance, Miss Grub?” Butterfly she may be, but no butterfly deserved to be stomped upon.

Buttercup gave a small bob; delight, relief, and not a little adoration mingling on her face, as she was escorted away, to a chorus of sighs from her rivals. May Overhill let out a merry laugh as other lads appeared, to bow clumsily before the lasses remaining. “He’s done it again. All the lasses will want a bow from now on.”

"Quite right, too," Erling announced, as he leapt to his feet, giving his wife an exaggerated bow. "Would you accompany me for a spin about the dance floor, my lady?" May obliged him at once and her husband leaned in to whisper, “I reckon Orton Sandyman is a bit put out, too,” as he led her to the line.

May watched, pensively, as Orton was left with no partner. With a deep scowl at Frodo’s silk clad back, he made off to the beer barrels and May leaned in to her husband. “You’d best keep an eye on him. He gets like his da when he takes on too much drink. He’d smack a tree for gettin’ in his way.”

Erling nodded, with a grin. “I’ll make sure the lads are ready. Speakin’ of drink… after this dance I’ll collect Hamson and we’ll take your da home. He’s snorin’ fit to strip bark from the trees.”

Sure enough, Hamfast Gamgee was fast asleep, with his hand about his empty beer pot, his head upon the table and his mouth wide.

Ten minutes later Frodo returned a reluctant Buttercup to her father. He did not linger. Despite her determined flouncing of petticoats during the dance, and now some serious batting of her eyelashes, he was very much aware that adulation was not a good basis for any meaningful relationship. A nice cool cider was just what he needed after his exertions. 

He arrived to find Orton Sandyman already leaning heavily upon the plank that was serving as bar. Borden Brewer, the landlord of the Ivy Bush, was dispensing from assorted barrels behind him and he smiled broadly. “What can I get you, Mister Baggins?”

Frodo had apparently arrived at the tail end of a conversation, for Orton slammed his empty tankard upon the bar, weaving uncertainly as he scowled at Borden. “Wadya mean, I’ve had enough? You’re not in yer pub now. Tis a weddin’ and yer not in charge. Now gimme me another half of beer.”

Borden’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr Baggins.” He had been a pub landlord for many years and was long used to dealing with drunks, although few could be as belligerent as Orton and Ted Sandyman. “I’ve been put in charge of the beer and cider by Mister Gamgee, so you can think again, Orton. I've already told you, I'll not serve you another half. Go away and sober up.”

Orton spun about, to find Frodo at his side, and his face grew darker. “You're servin' the high-and-mighty Mister Baggins soon enough. Then again, that's to be expected.” He thrust his hips in a very suggestive way, despite being unbalanced, and leered in Frodo’s face. “On very good terms with all the Gamgee lasses, is the squire. One 'service' deserves another, hey Baggins?”

Frodo’s mouth dropped open, inadvertently inhaling a generous amount of alcohol fumes from Orton’s breath. So shocked was he at the inference, that he had not even selected the right response when Erling Overhill, who had obviously been keeping an eye on proceedings, spoke first. “Call my May a light-skirt will you?” Erling was beaten to the draw by his brother-in-law, however. Bartimus, had several pounds on the shorter Erling, and every ounce of those pounds was muscle. Even as Erling drew back his arm, Bartimus jumped in with a lightening strike to Orton Sandyman's jaw. There was a meaty thump, followed a loud clatter, as the rotund miller’s son landed, in a sprawling heap of arms and legs amid a pile of empty barrels.

Borden Brewer leapt over the makeshift bar with unexpected alacrity, joining others who crowded in to glower down at the stunned Orton. Knowing how close they were to landing more punches, it was Borden who hoisted the stunned Orton to his feet, to escort him firmly from the field, by the scruff of his collar. “Time we got you home, my lad.”

Sam and Bartimus would have followed, but Frodo held them back, with a nod to some of the closer dancers, who were craning their necks to make sense of the action by the bar. Frodo drew Erling and Bartimus closer, directing there gaze to the gaily dancing bride and groom. “Let it lie. We don’t want to spoil the wedding. I doubt he'll give Borden any trouble. He'll see Orton gets home and I’ll tend bar until he returns.” With those words Frodo ducked under the plank bar and smiled at a customer, who had just strolled up and was eyeing the scattered barrels with some interest.

Erling still looked mulish, no doubt feeling robbed of the chance to express his anger for the slight to the Gamgee sisters, and the gentlehobbit they considered family. “Not a word of this to the lasses,” Bartimus warned as he grabbed the younger Erling’s elbow. He and Erling righted the empty barrels, pausing to pat Frodo’s arm before crossing the field, to where May and Daisy were deep in conversation.

Borden did not return for another three hours and Frodo was beginning to worry that something may have happened to him. When he did arrive, he grinned at his deputy bartender. “I hope you haven’t been spillin’ too much of my good ale, Mister Baggins.”

Frodo laughed, more from relief than amusement, for Borden seemed none the worse for wear. “I would not dare.” He tapped the nearest cider barrel and it emitted a hollow echo. “Although it’s as well you returned, because we may need to tap another barrel.”

Borden stepped around the makeshift bar and lowered his voice. “I poured Orton Sandyman into my cart and drove him back to Bywater. His Da weren’t too pleased to see him in that state, I can tell you, but my missus would never let me hear the end of it, if I took him back to the Ivy and he threw up in one of our fine guest rooms.” He scowled. “It would be just like him to do that a’purpose.” He grinned. “I left him throwin' up in his own back yard and he'll have more than a thick head tomorrow mornin'. You can tell Barti that bruise on Orton's chin is colourin' up nicely.”

“It was good of you to take him all the way home.” Frodo drew on his waistcoat, fastening the fine brass buttons.

“Aye, well, the Gamgee’s are better behaved customers at my pub than the Sandyman’s ever were. But that’s not why I did it. Hamfast and Bell Gamgee have been good friends to most everyone in Hobbiton at one time or another. I’ll not see young Marigold’s weddin’ spoilt by that *leasin-monger.”

Frodo studied his toes for a moment. “Borden, does everyone think that I,” he paused, unable to find a polite way to phrase his enquiry, “That I … you know … with all the Gamgee lasses?”

Borden’s eyes widened. “Bless you, no! There’s always one or two as takes pleasure in spreadin’ their own filthy thoughts, but tonight was the first time I ever heard such a thing about you. You and all them lasses has been raised better than that.” He slapped Frodo on the back. “Don’t you go thinking on it, young sir. Now, you go on and enjoy the rest of the party and I wager you’ll likely never hear those words spoken again. In fact, Orton will probably have forgotten them himself by the time he sobers up enough to have that thick head.”

Frodo fervently hoped so, not for himself, but for the sake of Daisy, May and Marigold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *LEASING-MONGER = old English term for someone who habitually tells falsehoods.


	18. Chapter 18

“Morning, Sam.” Frodo stood in the kitchen doorway of Bag End, cup of tea in hand. 

Sam planted his spade, deep in the dark, soft earth he had been turning. “Mornin’ Mister Frodo. I was hopin’ to get the last of this patch turned before I fetched your hot water. I’m sorry sir.”

Frodo waved away his apology. “It’s alright. You made up the fire so I just helped myself from the boiler.” He held up a hand when Sam made to come in. “And I refilled the boiler, so you can carry on with that. Is that where you’re going to plant the peas?”

Same pointed to a pile of long sticks. “Yes, sir. I’ll be growin’ them in cones, up those. They’ll look pretty when they’re flowerin’ and it’ll make the pods easier to pick. When I’m done here I thought I’d go check for weeds in the front garden.”

Frodo drew his thick cardigan closer against the early March chill. “Weeds? I don’t expect there’s much coming up at this time of year.”

Sam snorted. “You’d be surprised what will take a chance. There’s a stubborn patch of nettles in the corner of the front border that I need to get on top of. I noticed a few hangin' on from last year and I’ve been meanin' to pull them for a while.”

“Why don’t you just dig them up?”

Sam shook his head at his master’s ignorance of such things. Unlike Mister Bilbo, Frodo paid scant attention to the day-to-day running of a garden. “You can’t go diggin’ them up when their roots is all tangled up around your rose bushes. Tis safer to just keep pullin’ them, until they give in and go somewhere else to grow.”

“I bow to your knowledge of such things.” Frodo cocked his head suddenly. “I’ll be back in a minute. Someone’s at the front door.” He disappeared back into the depths of Bag End, returning a little while later with two thick cream envelopes in his hand. Picking his way through the somnolent vegetable rows, he held one out to Sam. “I told the postman you were here, so he left this with me. It’s addressed to Samwise Gamgee, Esquire. I have one too.”

Sam looked at the proffered envelope as though he expected it to bite him. “What do you think it is? Tis too grand to have come from our May.”

Frodo grinned and continued to hold it out, patiently. “I suspect I know, but you never will, unless you open it.”

Dragging a tattered hanky from his pocket, Sam wiped his hands thoroughly before accepting the large envelope. As soon as he had his hand free, Frodo broke the seal on his and withdrew a large piece of finely decorated card, with an embossed crest. “I thought so,” was all he said as he watched Sam do the same.

Squinting a little at the florid writing style, Sam read out, “Mr and Mrs Saradoc Brandybuck request the presence of Master Samwise Gamgee, for the Coming of Age celebration of their son, Merriadoc Brandybuck. The party to be held at Brandy Hall, at three o’clock in the afternoon, on the twenty-seventh of March.” In a less formal script someone had added, “Accommodation will be provided for those requiring it. Come as you are. RIYP”

Sam frowned. “What does, 'RIYP'?”

“Reply If You Please.”

“Oh. And what's this, 'Come as you are'.”

Frodo chuckled. “It means we don’t have to put on our best suits.”

Sam’s face cleared. “That’s just as well, ‘cause I don’t think I’ve got one.”

“What happened to the grey one your mother made for my coming of age party?”

“Mister Frodo, that was nigh on fifteen year ago. Even if it still fit me, it would have fallen apart by now.”

“Has it been that long? Oh, my.” He studied his friend, noting for the first time that Sam had expanded both outward and upward in recent years. Admittedly, his present outfit was one reserved for working, but it was looking decidedly worn at hem and knee. “When did you last have a new suit, Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “A couple of years, maybe.”

“A couple? Now that I consider it, I haven’t seen you in anything new for much longer than that. The green suit you wore to my party last September looked to be in imminent danger of losing its buttons.”

Sam coloured brightly and Frodo felt immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m sure that with running around after me, you haven’t had time to get anything made.”

“Our Daisy made the last suit. But with her havin’ two little ones to look after, I didn’t like to bother her. I’m sure I can fit into that green one again, if I move careful.”

“Oh, Sam. I think anything more strenuous than breathing will be more than it’s buttons can stand. It would not do for yet another Gamgee to burst out of his breeches.”

Sam grinned broadly. "Aye. It was years before my gaffer lived that down. But if I don't do any dancin'..."

Frodo’s face brightened. “I know what we’ll do. It will be your birthday in April. Let me gift you with a new suit now.”

Sam grew rather alarmed, considering the annual trip his master made to Michel Delving, to get his fancy clothes made. “Mister Frodo, that would be too much. I couldn’t take such a gift from you.”

Suspecting the direction of his friend’s thoughts, Frodo smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to drag you off to my tailor. I suspect that if I did, you would probably never dare to wear the suit anyway. I was thinking more of asking Mistress Cornberry to make you one. I can send to Michel Delving for a length of nice, serviceable grey wool.”

Panic melted from Sam’s features. “Mistress Cornberry makes for a lot of folk. Will she have time to get it finished before Mr Merry’s party, though?”

Frodo smiled. “I think she will, for you. I shall speak with her this afternoon. I was going to market anyway, and if I write to Master Bentwhistle I can drop it in the post on my way past the Ivy Bush.”

“Thank you, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever had clothes made by someone outside family. That would be a grand birthday present, and no mistake.”

“That’s settled, then. If you want to join me indoors, you can pen a reply to that invitation and I’ll post it with mine.” When Sam looked a little conflicted, Frodo chuckled. “Don’t worry, Sam. The peas will still be here this afternoon. You can finish up after luncheon. We can share that nice pork pie I bought yesterday and I have a jar of Mistress Bolger’s chutney to go with it.”

It was mention of the chutney that obviously swayed Sam. Mistress Bolger’s chutney won prizes every year at the Thrimidge fair so, grabbing his battered coat, Sam followed Frodo into the welcoming warmth of Bag End.

-0-

Eglantine Took worried at her bottom lip as she watched her youngest wad up a fine, embroidered shirt and stuff it into his pack. “You will look after him, Frodo? Pippin has a knack for finding trouble.”

At her side, Frodo smiled. “I did last time, didn't I? Anyway, we shall be travelling on main roads for most of the journey. There's not much trouble for him to find.”

Eglantine looked unconvinced. “As Pippin tells it, you had to be rescued by a wizard the last time you took him walking. Are you sure you wouldn't rather travel with Tom Carter? He is due the day after tomorrow.”

“We were way up in Bindbole Wood when that happened. And I don't think anyone could have forseen the movement of half a hillside.” Frodo took his Aunt's hand. “Pip will be perfectly safe with us. Anyway, it's only one day's journey to Hobbiton from here.” He watched Pippin slip a couple of apples into his pack. “If we don't stop to eat every ten minutes.”

Eglantine chuckled. “He's a tween. You're not so old that you don't remember being a tween, Frodo Baggins. As Bilbo used to tell it, your stomach was a bottomless pit.”

That comment drew a bright laugh from Frodo. “You are quite right, Aunt. Don't worry. We'll stop regularly enough for food. Sam has brought enough to feed half the Shire.”

With one final tug on the drawstring of his pack, Peregrin Took grinned as he came to stand before his mother. “I'm ready.”

Eglantine bent to hug him tight and Pippin wrapped his arms about her. “I'll be alright, Mama. Cousin Frodo knows everything about travelling. We're going to have a grand adventure.”

“Adventuring is just what I'm worried about. And your cousin does not know enough to instruct you in the folding of clothes at least! By the time you arrive in Buckland you shall look like some disreputable wondering wizard. I don't know what your Aunt Esmeralda will think.”

Sam trotted up at that moment, carrying Frodo's pack as well as his own. “Don't worry, Mistress. I'll make sure everythin' is pressed when we get to Hobbiton and I'll help him pack proper before we set out again.”

Frodo shrugged into the straps of his pack, tugging his jacket straight. “You can rely on Sam, Aunt. He manages to keep me tidy.”

Eglantine smiled at Sam. “Then I thank you, Mister Gamgee.”

Sam blushed. He had never been addressed as Mister by a lady of such high standing. “I'll look after Master Pippin. Don't you worry none.”

To his surprise, the lady bent to kiss each of them on the brow. “Then away you go. Enjoy the party and give Merriadoc a birthday hug from me.”

“I will Mama.” Pippin drew on his pack and Sam helped him settle it correctly. “I hear coming of age parties at Brandy Hall are quite something, although they'll struggle to beat Frodo's.”

Frodo turned him about to leave the courtyard. “Well, mine was a double birthday, so it doesn't really count.”

-0-

The trio arrived at Bag End just after sunset, thanks to Pippin insisting on three stops to eat along the way. There would have been four, but Frodo managed to persuade his younger cousin that they would soon be arriving in Hobbiton, where they could eat a proper meal.

Pippin wiped his feet and dropped his pack in the very centre of the hall, where Sam collected it and his master's and spirited them away. Pippin headed straight for the kitchen. “What are we going to eat? Ooooh!”

Frodo trotted after him with an exasperated sigh. He really would have prefered a good wash before even considering food. The reason for Pippin's exclamation became clear as soon as he entered the room. 

Someone had lit the range, and a large pot sat to one side, it's lid rattling gently. Elbowing Pippin aside, before the lad could touch it with bare fingers, Frodo collected a pan holder from it's hook and lifted the lid. A cloud of fragrant steam escaped and both hobbits leaned closer to examine the fine vegetable stew revealed. Frodo's mouth watered. “I wonder who did this?”

“That'll be our Daisy.” Sam arrived, pausing at the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “She said she'd pop in to leave some food, thinkin' we'd be hungry and too tired to cook somethin'.” Frodo threw him a towel, which Sam snatched easily from the air. “I've put your packs in your rooms, and I'll press your things tomorrow, Master Pippin.”

Frodo drew a reluctand Pippin to the sink and handed over the soap. “That was very good of Daisy. I shall pop into the village tomorrow to thank her. Will you eat with us Sam, or do you want to check up on your father? There's more than enough stew here for all of us.”

“I'll not say no to a bite of supper, and Daisy has been keepin' an eye on the Gaffer too. I'll see him when I go home later.” As he spoke, Sam collected a fresh loaf from the pantry. A quick glance from Frodo revealed that Daisy had also brought fresh bread, milk and even a few jam tarts.

Frodo took his turn at washing his hands as Pippin set the table and Sam cut several thick slices of crusty bread. “You sister is a wonder, Sam; to do all that, and also look after her own family. I shall repay her tomorrow and perhaps cut her some daffodils from the garden.”

“You don't have to give her no daffy's, Sir. She got the vegetables from your garden, but I don't think she'd say no to a couple of coppers for the bread and such.”

Frodo set down the pot and filled Pippin's dish first, for the youngster's tongue was almost hanging upon the table. “Be careful, Pip. It's hot. Nevertheless, Daisy shall have both coin and flowers.”

-0-

The next morning Frodo left Sam pressing Pippin's clothes and showing the lad how to roll them properly for travelling. If he garnered a few second glances when he walked up the path to the Brockbank residence, he cared not. He had selected a large bunch of the very best daffodils from his garden, even going so far as to tie them with a blue ribbon.

The brown door swung open before he could knock and Frodo was almost bowled off his feet by a whirlwind with copper curls, that wrapped little arms tightly about his waist. “Uncle Frodo!”

Frodo grinned at her mother, who stood with the two year old Ashlee on her hip. “Hello Frodo.” Her eyes widened as she beheld the bouquet Frodo proffered. “Thank you.” She held them to her nose and inhaled, before holding them quickly away as Ashlee made a grab. “Oh no you don't, Trouble. These aren't for eating.”

Frodo dropped down to give Bell a tight squeeze. “My goodness, Pumpkin, but you've grown so much since I saw you last.”

Bell giggled. “Silly Uncle. You only saw me last week.”

Frodo made a big production of staring her up and down. “And yet I would swear that you have grown a whole inch.”

Her mother rolled her eyes at the antics of honorary uncles. “Will you come in for a cup of tea? I've some jam tarts.”

“I would love to. And jam tarts are the reason I'm here.” He glanced down at little Bell before adding hastily, “At least one of them.”

“Typical lad. Alway followin' your stomachs.” Nonetheless, Daisy grinned as she removed the bow, set the daffodils in a bowl and added cold water. 

“Well, after last night's supper I don't think I have room for more than one jam tart, so your pantry is safe. The main reason I came was to thank you for the provisions and to make restitution.”

Daisy rolled her eyes as she set a cup before him and filled it with the usual thick brew. “There you go with those big words. I'm guessin' you want to pay me for the food?”

Frodo chuckled as he added milk and honey to his cup. “I do. It must have been a very busy day for you and the stew was very much appreciated.”

“The stew weren't nothin'. It was all vegetables from your own plot. As for the tarts, it didn't cost a farthin' to make half a dozen extra.”

“A farthing is a farthing, and there was the bread and milk too.” He set a small paper package upon the table. Knowing that Daisy would not open it until after he left, he had added a couple of extra pennies. “If you don't use this to refil your larder, perhaps you can buy something for the faunts.”

“I can do that, and thank you.” Daisy set her son on the floor, where he tottered off to play with a scatter of wooden bricks on the rug. “How is Master Peregrin settlin' in?”

“He's made himself at home. His bedroom already looks as though someone has held a rather rowdy party in it, but at least he'll only be there for another two days, before we set out for Buckland.”

“Do you still want me to go in and do that cleanin' while you're away?”

“Oh, yes please. Sam didn't have time to do a spring clean this year and Bag End would definitely benefit from someone chasing the spiders from the corners.” Frodo took a sip of tea. “It's good of you to do this. I know it's not easy to be from home when you have two youngsters.”

Bell was sitting with her little brother, building brick towers that Ashlee took great delight in knocking down. Daisy looked on fondly. “They'll do well enough. There's always someone in the village will look after them. Honeysuckle will be doin' it this time. They love her because she lets them get up to all kinds of mischief.”

“Oh dear.”

Daisy waved away his concern. “Tis nothin' dangerous. She just lets them play a little too hard and feeds them too many cakes.” She lowered her voice. “Tis good for them in a way.”

Frodo watched Bell lean in to wipe her little brother's nose, despite his protests. “They are lovely children, Daisy.”

“Of course they are...when they behave.” Despite her rider, Daisy's eyes glowed with pride at his comment. “Will you be leavin' the key to Bag End with my Da?”

“Yes. He said he'd keep an eye on the garden too. I've given him instructions to harvest any root vegetables he needs. There's more than enough.” Frodo set down his empty cup. “I'd best get moving or I'll miss the best of the market. Pippin has declared a fancy for buttercream cake and I don't have enough butter.” He bent to give both youngsters a kiss on the head.

Daisy accompanied him to the door. “You spoil that lad.”

Frodo leaned in to wink as he whispered, “Tis good for him.”

Daisy punched him on the arm. “Get away with you, Frodo!”

The next morning Frodo glanced over in alarm, at the loud thud of Sam’s travelling pack landing upon Bag End’s kitchen table. Wincing, Sam grabbed the pack, depositing it upon the floor instead and bending to check the table top. “Sorry, sir. I hope I didn’t leave a dent.”

Frodo’s brows drew together, although his blue eyes sparkled. “Dent it? I’m surprised you didn’t flatten it. Whatever have you got in that pack, Sam Gamgee? ”

Satisfied that he had not, in fact, damaged the table, Sam straightened with a shrug. “Just a few things I thought we might need.”

“A few! You do know that we shall be travelling through several villages, and by at least half a dozen farms on our way, don’t you? We won’t starve between here and Buckland, if we carry not one scrap of food between us.” He took inventory of the various pans and utensils hanging from Sam’s pack. “We could cook a three course dinner with all the pans you have there. Have you learned nothing from our previous walking trips?”

Sam grinned. “Yes. I've learned that you forget to bring lots of things that you need.” Then he frowned. “Anyway, we don’t know what food we’ll be findin’ in all these villages and farms and the like, so I thought I’d best be ready.” He paused, “Bother! I meant to bring a little box of salt and seasonin’.” He would have scampered off back home had Frodo not stayed him.

“Sam! I have a packet of salt in my pack. We’ll manage and I hope you have a strong back. I certainly wouldn’t like to have to carry that lot all the way to Brandy Hall.” Frodo lifted his own, much smaller pack, and slipped the straps over his shoulders, just as Pippin scampered into the room.

“Morning Sam. Isn't it a lovely day for walking?”

Sam frowned. “Mayhap if there were a nice warm kitchen at the end of it. It's goin' to rain later. The Gaffer's joints are achin'.”

Pippin shrugged as he fastened his cloak atop his own pack. “We've got cloaks.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, just in case, I've an extra blanket, spare towel and a few odds and ends of food. There's a nice bit of roast chicken in my pack will make us a lunch, with a couple of beetroots and chunk of Brownlock cheese.”

Pippin licked his lips. “I don't suppose you'd be willing to let me have a taste of that cheese now?”

Both older hobbits replied, “No!”

A couple of hours later they were well on the way to Bywater. Frodo was keeping an eye on his companion but Sam didn’t seem too bothered by the weight of his pack after all. The younger hobbit looked soft, but beneath that layer of comfortable fat was a body of work-hardened muscle.

The road was particularly busy today, although everyone was heading in the opposite direction. It was market day in Hobbiton, and folk from Bywater and all the surrounding countryside were off to do their shopping. Frodo chuckled as the trio stepped aside to allow passage for Mrs Bracegirdle and her large brood of youngsters. “I feel like a salmon, trying to swim upstream,” he quipped.

Sam stepped back into the road, shrugging his pack higher. “Bother it! I was goin’ to bring a small fishin’ rod, in case you was fancyin’ fish. I’ve gone and forgot it, so if we want fish I’ll have to tickle it.”

Pippin piped up with, “I can do that.”

“Dear Sam! We shall not starve, for want of a piece of grilled fish, between here and the next village.” Sam looked unconvinced, frowning as he no doubt continued to consider the where and the how of obtaining fish, if Mr Frodo fancied it. He had picked up a little twist of dill as they passed through the market, after all.

Their first night was spent in a comfortable bedroom at the Pig and Whistle, where the evening meal met up to even Sam Gamgee's high standards. The following day they set out early and Frodo kept them walking until noon. The trio sat down to lunch and Sam began to set out some food. Frodo and Pippin went to relieve themselves, then to wash hands in a nearby stream. As they perched upon the bank Pippin turned to his cousin. “I think I would have prefered a pint of beer with my lunch.”

Frodo grinned. “And how would you know? Your Papa only lets you drink cider.” 

Pippin grimaced, accepting the cup Sam handed him. “I don't think I like being the youngest of we three cousins. I never get to do the really fun things. Frodo, have you ever seen a lass?”

“We're generally surrounded by lasses, Pip. I would need to be blind not to.”

The tween rolled his eyes. “I don't mean like that. I mean, you know...have you actually SEEN a lass?”

“Can I assume that Merry's imminent coming of age has prompted this question?”

“Well, some of my friends have.”

“Have come of age, or have seen a lass?” Frodo asked, tongue-in-cheek.

That earned him an eyeroll from Pippin. “Come on, Frodo.”

Frodo stood, to lean against a nearby tree. “My response to your comment regarding your friends, is that some tweens like to pretend that they are more adult than they are. Don't believe everything they tell you.”

Pippin mulled that over as they walked back to their little camp. “I suppose you may be right. I certainly don't believe Sandon. He said lasses have hair down here.” He waved in the general direction of his breeches.

Frodo grinned. “Actually, some do.”

Pippin's mouth dropped open. “Then you have seen a lass! Did you actually... you know?”

He was stopped by Frodo's raised hand. “That is nobody's business buy mine and the lass. And I would caution you against doing any more than looking. There's more to tupping than scratching an itch. Surely your Papa has told you that.” He smiled. “Uncle Saradoc certainly drummed it into me. Some good marriages have come out of the getting of a bairn, but I've seen other folk trapped in a loveless union, and it's miserable.”

Frodo was aware of Sam, suddenly taking a deep interest in the correct laying out of their luncheon. Pippin did not appear to notice. “I saw Sandon go into the barn with one of the milkmaids the other week. When they came out again she was tying her laces. Should I tell Papa?”

Frodo winked at Sam. “Did they both look happy when they came out?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then it's not anyone's business but theirs. Let it be.”

There was a long silence. Frodo handed over a chunk of bread and some cheese. “Look Pip, you have time before you come of age. The lessons on love and lust will come soon enough, and not all of them should be put into practice. Some actions have long term costs that you may not wish to pay.” He threw up his hands. “Listen to me! Now I sound like Uncle Bilbo.”

Pippin giggled. “No you don't. He would have turned pink, stammered a bit and sent me to speak with Papa.” 

Frodo cuffed him lightly on the arm. “You're probably right. Now let's eat this food, so that poor Sam doesn't have to carry it any further.

The rest of their journey to Brandy Hall was uneventful, and both older hobbits were kept entertained by Pippin's incessant chatter. Once the first day had, as the Gaffer often put it, cleared its throat of that rain, it turned clear and sunny and they even spent their second night out-of-doors. Frodo found it hard to keep a straight face when Sam produced the waterproof groundsheet, however. 

Frodo had to hold his friend’s hand tightly as they crossed the wide Brandywine on the Bucklebury ferry. The Brandywine was well-behaved but rather broad at this point, and by the time they were midstream Sam was looking a little green. Pippin, of course, thought it all very exciting and at one point leaned so far over to watch a fish that the ferry-hobbit had to snatch him back, for fear he would fall in. Sam and Pippin leapt off as soon as the ferry touched the far shore, leaving a grinning Frodo to pay. By the time they reached Brandy Hall, a couple of hours later, Sam’s complexion had regained its usual ruddy glow, although sight of the Hall’s huge front doors seemed to tie his tongue.

No sooner had they stepped into the fine paved yard, than a lad ran out from the stables. “Is it just you, sirs? Only we’ve room in the stables for ponies.”

Frodo grinned. “It’s just us. We decided to walk. I hope you also have beds for a couple of weary travellers, all the way from Hobbiton.”

The lad’s sandy brows rose. “Hobbiton? Why, that’s all the way over West Farthing.” Frodo watched light dawn in the young face. “Are you Mister Baggins and party?”

“I am. I take it you’ve been expecting us.”

“Oh, yes sir. The young Master's run into the yard to look for you more times than I can count. We was expectin' you yesterday, but we didn’t know you was walkin'.” As he spoke the lad led them toward the stout double doors and reached up to turn the large brass handle. At his firm push, one side swung open on well oiled hinges and a waft of warm air drew Frodo back to his youth. Brandy Hall smelled of earth and fresh bread, of people and polish. Pippin shrugged narrow shoulders and stepped straight in. When Sam hung back, Frodo took his arm to draw him gently inside.

It was late in the afternoon but the doors faced West and sunbeams lit the fine wainscoting and polished tile of the broad and well appointed hallway. A door opened to their left and two well dressed hobbits appeared.

“Frodo!” 

Frodo's only response was, “Oof!” as all the air was squeezed from his lungs by Merry’s enthusiastic embrace.

As always, Esmeralda Brandybuck was as neat as a pin in both speech and deportment. “We were beginning to wonder if you would arrive in time for the party, tomorrow. You’re looking well, Frodo.” 

Frodo disentangled himself from his cousin, who immediately rushed aside to hug Pippin. Frodo drew Sam forward. “Sam, Merry you already know, and, as my cousin appears to have completely forgotten his manners, let me introduce his lady mother, Mistress Esmeralda Brandybuck.” He gave a short bow to the lady, who raised a finely winged brow at her son's failings before offering a twinkling smile to Sam. Still unused to being in the high-born company of Frodo's relations, Sam took a moment to realise that a response was expected, then offered as deep a bow as the weight of his pack permitted.

At his side, Pippin also bowed, before offering his aunt a winning grin. 

“Good day to you Master Gamgee, Peregrin. I hope my nephew has not had the two of you tramping all the way here on foot? We assumed Frodo would hire ponies or at least ride with Tom Carter.”

Sam was apparantly a little unsure how to respond and decided to defend his master. “I don’t mind, lady. I’m used to walkin’. In truth, I don’t know as I would know how to ride a pony.”

Pippin waved a hand, dismissively. “There's nothing to it, Sam. Although it makes your bottom and legs hurt at first.”

Esmeralda laughed and Merry hid a smile. “Merry, you’d best show your guests to their room. I've no doubt they would welcome a bath. I shall make arrangements.” The lady turned to depart, only pausing to add, “Frodo, your uncle and Rorymac are in a meeting at present, so you probably won’t see them until tomorrow.”

Merry shrugged. “There have been meetings all day. Something about the Bounders. Come on. You're all sharing a room down the hall from mine.” He slipped between Sam and Frodo, taking the arm of each, much to Sam’s apparent surprise. “We can sneak out to the kitchens together for a midnight feast later, and nobody will know.”

Pippin's eyes lit up. “That sounds like fun.”

Frodo laughed. “Merry, your mother and father always know. But what’s this about the Bounders?”

Sam clearly only half listened to the conversation as he took in the fine furnishings and many hallways that seemed to open out in every direction. “Beggin’ your pardon Mr Merriadoc, but I think I’ve seen less complicated coney warrens. I’m thinkin’ it would be very easy to get lost in here.”

“It’s Merry, and don’t worry. You’ll soon get the lay of it,” his host assured him. He turned back to Frodo. “There’s been a few big folk trying to cross the bridge of late. Some have even tried swimming the Brandywine. Imagine that! Papa has had trouble getting the Bounders to stay at their posts, and gave instructions to lock all the doors at sunset.” Merry imparted the information as blithely as he would a dinner menu, but Frodo’s eyes narrowed and he noticed that Sam glanced back at those stout doors more favourably. Behind them, Pippin had stopped to admire a painting.

That evening they shared a family dinner with Saradoc, Esmeralda and Merry. At first Sam appeared ill at ease, but the Brandybuck’s were quite welcoming, serving simple food and offering mundane conversation. Sam was soon more than happy to concentrate upon his plate, as most of the conversation revolved around the doings of Frodo’s distant relations. Remaining silent no doubt gave him more time to eat. Pippin managed perform both functions in tandem, with very little effort.

On the way back to their shared room they could hear a low murmur of sound, like some distant gaggle of geese. When Sam enquired about it Frodo chuckled. “Count yourself lucky to be spared that on your first night here. It’s coming from the Great Hall, two floors below us. They hold meetings and entertainments there on high days but mostly it’s used as a dining hall. Imagine Bilbo’s leaving party, only twice the size.”

“Two floors below? Beggin’ your pardon, Master Merry, but the Brandybucks must all have powerful lungs.”

Merry laughed brightly. “You can find out for yourself tomorrow, Sam. My birthday party will be in there.” When Sam looked a little concerned Merry tugged him along the hallway. “Come on. We can sit and chat in my room before it’s time for bed.” He giggled. “Maybe I can dig out a pair of earmuffs for you to wear tomorrow.”

The next day dawned grey and rainy, but that could not dampen spirits, for today young Master Merriadoc came of age. In the afternoon there would be a huge party, to which absolutely everybody in Brandy Hall was invited, along with many from the surrounding Buckland, and even a few from across the river.

As was tradition, the barding remained in his room all morning, to make himself available to all those wishing to present gifts. It being such an important birthday and Merry being in line for the position of Master of Buckland one day, there were many presents to be given, resulting in Merry having to rise very early.

By the time Frodo knocked on the door, many had come and gone and, upon entering, he found Merry replacing the lid on Sam’s gift of a jar of wild honeycomb. Merry grinned apologetically and ran to wash his hands. “I couldn’t resist. Wild honey always seems sweeter than the stuff harvested from our hives.”

Frodo chuckled. “Sam always finds the best and he never seems to get stung. The only time I tried collecting honeycomb I ended up being chased by an angry swarm of bees, and came back to the Hall dripping wet. I had to jump in the river to get rid of them and had not a drop of honey to show for my adventure. Your mother was quite peeved at the mud on my best shirt.”

Merry jumped up to sit on the edge of his bed and invited Frodo to join him. “Did she make you launder it yourself? She always does that with me.”

“She did, and your father said that, as the shirt was already dirty, I may as well clean out the pigsty before laundering it. It took me a good hour of scrubbing to get that shirt clean.”

“People tell some interesting tales about you, cousin. I was too young to get caught up in your mischief but some here still remember you as ‘The Terror Of Brandy Hall’.”

“I was a bit of a tear-away. I’m amazed my aunt and uncle put up with me for so long. But enough of me. This is your day, cousin. Happy birthday.” Frodo held out a small, gaily wrapped parcel.

Merry accepted it solemnly. “Thank you.” With a restraint Frodo would never have expected from him, his younger cousin tugged the bow free and set the bright ribbon aside. Within a fine wooden box Merry discovered a parchment scroll. Frodo waited for his reaction in eager anticipation and helped him to unfurl it. It was a list of his direct forefathers, right back to the days of the Oldbuck clan. “Did you make this? It is beautiful.”

Frodo grinned. “Surely you recognise my hand? Yes, and it took me a lot of research through some very mouldy records for the early names.” He winced. “In truth, I was not sure of some of the early Oldbuck names, that’s why I had to put question marks at the side of them.”

Merry grimaced. “Grandpa Rory has been drilling them into me regularly, but even he has not been able to go back so far as this.”

Frodo nodded remembering, all too clearly, some very dry genealogy lessons with Rorymac Brandybuck. “I found some rather dusty and battered scrolls about the founding of Buckland in the Mathom House a few years ago, and that inspired me.”

Merry beamed, leaning in to gift his cousin with a tight hug. “I’ll treasure it and add it to our library.”

Frodo hugged back. “Happy Coming of Age, Merry.”

Merry released him with a snort. “I should feel grown up, but I don’t feel any different to how I felt yesterday.” He jumped up to begin rummaging in a large pile of carefully wrapped parcels, returning to hold one out to his cousin. “And here is my gift to you.”

“Thank you.” Frod untied the large ribbon bow that he suspected was the work of Merry’s mother, recognising the sigil of Dale on the lid. “I know what you mean. I thought that reaching thirty-three would bring all kinds of freedom and wisdom. Instead, I discovered that it brought a great deal of responsibility and precious little of that wisdom.”

He lifted the lid. Within was a bundle of green cloth, which he parted to reveal a fine brass bell, with a hanging bracket in the shape of a snarling dragon. “Merry, this is beautiful!” He hugged his cousin enthusiastically.

Once released, Merry beamed proudly. “I wanted to give you something special and I hope you don’t mind that I did not make it myself.” He traced a finger along the dragon’s scales. “I fancy it may be frightening enough to put off even the Sackville-Baggins.”

Frodo laughed. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. If ever Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Orton Sandyman come together it will take more than a brass dragon to protect me.”

Merry frowned. “The SB’s are easy enough to deal with. They’re all bluster. But from what I’ve heard, that whole Sandyman family is mean, through and through. Did you ever get to the bottom of that incident with the retchleaf?”

Growing pensive, Frodo studied the dragon’s finely cast face. “No. Somebody once told me that their hatred was a generations old feud regarding letter writing. Orton never actually confessed to the deed with the retchleaf, but he told me some cock-and-bull story about an imagined slight over an apprenticeship here. I honestly think their hatred has gone on for so long that even they have forgotten the root of it. I do not wish to think ill of anyone but I sometimes wonder if they just go out of their way to find reasons to be angry.”

“I can believe that. Papa told me what Orton’s sister, Fern, accused you of. I think he intended it as a lesson to me on how the possible future Master of Buckland should not only behave well around lasses, but be seen to do so.”

Frodo winced, remembering all to clearly his panic at the thought of being forced into marriage to Fern Sandyman, when he knew for certain that the child she carried was not his. It was only a discretely placed birthmark that had saved Frodo from what would have been an ill-fated marriage. “I forgave Fern long ago. She was desperate.”

Merry wrinkled his nose. “You are far too forgiving, cousin. If she’d done that to me I think Papa would have run the entire family from the Shire.”

“Maybe.” Frodo drew a deep breath and put on a smile. “Enough of this. Today you come of age and it’s a day to celebrate.” He replaced the lid on his gift. “Thank you for my lovely gift. I shall ask Sam to fix it outside the front door as soon as we get home. Perhaps it will be enough to scare away Lobelia at least.”


	19. Chapter 19

That afternoon Frodo, Pippin and Sam strolled across Brandy Hall's broad lawn, where it dropped down toward the river. “So, what do you think of Buckland, Sam?”

“It’s more like the Shire, proper, than I was expectin', but the Hall is a sight. Tis bigger, and sometimes grander, than even Great Smials. Beggin' your pardon and all, Mr Pippin.” 

Pippin shrugged his shoulders. “No offence taken, Sam. Brandy Hall is enormous in comparison...although its not as old.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen this many folk all pushed together, since Mr Frodo took me to the Free Fair.”

Frodo laid a hand upon Sam's shoulder. “Does it worry you? You don’t have to speak with everyone, you know. It’s like a village really. Other than saying ‘hello’ as they pass, most folks settle into smaller family groups.”

“That’s a blessin’. I think I must have seen a score of folk before we’d even had breakfast this mornin’.” Sam gave a small shudder. “That dinin' hall is somethin’. I aint never seen a room that big before. And the noise… all those voices and the clatter of cutlery and plates. I thought my ears was goin’ to burst.”

Pippin laughed. “You should hear Great Smials when we throw Grandpa's birthday party.”

Frodo guided them onto a gravel path that ran parallel to the swift flowing Brandywine. “Growing up here I got used to it after a while. I didn’t even notice the volume until I saw your face this morning. At least on the Master’s table we had the food brought to us, and did not have to stand in line at the kitchen counter.”

Sam winced. “I wasn’t expectin’ that. It don’t feel right for me to be sittin’ with such high folk. My Gaffer would say I'm gettin' above my place. I’m only a gardener.”

“Oh, Sam. You are invited as my friend, not my gardener. Of course you should be seated with me, and there was no question of it in family eyes. That is why you were put in the same room with Pippin and me.”

“You would be miserable in a room on your own, anyway,” Pippin announced as he began to kick a pebble from foot to foot.

“I thought that was because they’d run out of rooms,” Sam offered, switching sides so that Frodo was the one walking closest to the river bank. Frodo hid a grin. Sam would step in front of a lion to protect his Mister Frodo, but a river was quite another matter. The Water, which ran through Hobbiton, was not much more than a broad, shallow stream, unless it was in flood, but the Brandywine was quite another matter. It was flowing clear enough today but was so deep in places that they could see no sign of the bottom. Crossing it on the ferry had been very disturbing to Sam, who wasted no time in suggesting that, on their way home, they cross by way of 'that nice sturdy stone bridge' a few miles upstream.

For a moment Frodo fell into his own memories of the Brandywine, not all of them pleasant.

“Is it very deep?”

Frodo blinked himself back to the present. “Is what deep?”

Sam nodded toward the enigmatic water. “The Brandywine. It looks very deep. I wouldn’t like to fall in.”

Frodo stood still, turning to look out across the rolling green water. “It’s quite deep in places, and if you’re not a strong swimmer it can carry you away. It's deadly when it's in flood, but most of the time it's like this.” He nodded toward a couple of small boats, drawn up on a narrow shingle beach. “Some folk like to go boating when it’s running slow, but when it comes to fishing, most are content to cast from shore.”

Pippin nodded, his voice taking on a ghoulish tone. “Merry says there are weeds in the middle, that you can get caught up in if you swim there.” He flicked his stone high and it landed with a satisfying splash, not far from shore.

Sam shuddered, looked down, to where a group of boisterous tweens was splashing in the shallows. “Have you ever been in a boat, Mister Frodo?”

Frodo turned away from the river, resuming his walk, and Sam skipped to catch up, while Pippin searched for another stone to kick. “Uncle Saradoc ensures that everyone at least knows how to stay afloat, if not swim, and some of us can handle a boat. My father tought me when I was very young.”

The laughing jibes of the tweens at the shore changed tone, growing louder and more urgent, and the trio turned to follow a pointing finger, upstream. At first Frodo thought it was just a log, then he spotted a thick flow of dark streamers at one end, and realised that those streamers were hair. It was a body, being carried downstream on the swift current.

A group of older hobbits ran past, shouting instructions to the tweens, who began to untie and jump into the boats. They paddled strongly toward the figure, which was clearly too big to be a hobbit. Their own boats being too small to accommodate such a large body, they had to content themselves with fastening it to the stern of one to drag it ashore.

By the time a curious Pippin had tugged his reluctant companions closer, a large group of hobbits had collected to watch Saradoc roll the figure over. Several people gasped and some of the ladies turned away. The man had not been in the water for long enough to bloat, which someone called a blessing, but his face was badly abraded by weeds and other underwater hazards. It was not his face that drew the gasps, however, but the broken stub of an arrow shaft that protruded from the centre of his bloodied chest.

Frodo did not even see the arrow, however. For him, the world narrowed until that body, with it's tendrils of dark hair, was all he could see. The rush of the river was the only sound he could hear. The figure shrank and dark hair was suddenly bound with blue ribbons. He could feel tremors begin to shake his body, rolling through from toe to head, and back again.

Sam suddenly blocked his view, hazel eyes wide and full of concern. He grabbed Frodo's shoulders, shaking him gently. “Mr Frodo? Frodo? Are you alright?”

Slender hands coaxed Sam aside and Aunt Esmeralda reached to stroke Frodo’s face. Her words seemed to come to him from far away. “I have been waiting for this, all these years. It’s alright, Frodo, dearest. Come inside now.” She gently turned Frodo about and led him back toward the Hall. As he stumbled away he was only vaguely aware of Merry taking Sam and Pippin aside.

For Frodo, the world became a strange merging of past and present. To the fore he was aware that he was in the Hall’s infirmary, and that Aunt Esmeralda was helping him to undress and don a nightshirt. Behind that he could see another time, when they had gone through the same motions. A time when he had been much smaller in this same room.

As his aunt tucked him into a narrow bed Frodo glanced down at his hand, surprised to discover it was empty. A blink, and there it was. A limp pair of blue ribbons, clasped tightly in his fist. Another blink and they were gone again, and he was being fed a warm drink that soothed, just as it had then. 

Frodo slept and when he awoke the world was one again. A quick check of his hand brought relief when he saw no ribbons, although the feel of them as they clung wetly to his hand remained.

“How are you feeling, Frodo?” Aunt Esmeralda sat in a chair at his bedside.

He glanced about the large, airy room, noting the neat line of unoccupied beds, and finally alighting upon a small collection of medicine bottles on the cabinet nearby. “How long have I been asleep?”

Esmeralda smiled softly. “Just a few hours. Seredic thought it would help. Did it?”

Frodo frowned, pushing himself up on his elbows and leaning back when Esmeralda slid additional pillows at his back. “I think so. It was so strange. For a little while it felt as though I were in two places at once.” He stared again at his right hand. “I could not seem to separate today from...” He paused to swallow. “From that other awful day.” He held up his hand, half expecting the ribbons to suddenly materialise, even though his rational mind knew they were in the dresser drawer of his bedroom, at Bag End.

His aunt caged his fingers gently in hers. “I wish, with all my heart, that you had not been there that morning.”

Frodo knew that she did not refer to today's event. “I am not sure that the pain would have been any less if I had stayed away.”

Esmeralda gave a wry smile. “You were always too inquisitive for your own good, Frodo Baggins. We tried to keep you away when we realised who it was, but you were as slippery as an eel.” She shook her head. “We thought to spare you the sight of them.”

“It was not your fault. Papa and Mama always allowed me my head.” Frodo offered a lopsided smile. “I must have driven you and Uncle Saradoc to distraction in those years before I went to stay with Bilbo.”

“You were a handful. I never minded too much, though. I suspected that you used activity to push away the memory.” Esmeralda narrowed her eyes. “The more exciting, and sometimes dangerous, that activity, the better.”

Frodo could feel something slowly loosening inside him, like the buttons on a tight waistcoat being unfastened, one by one, at the end of a long day. He drew a deep breath, letting it out on a sigh. “I tried to close the door on my memories and feelings because they hurt too much. In fact I locked it so tightly, that for years I did not even acknowledge that there was a door. Do you know, for the longest time I could not even remember their faces?”

“I worried about that for many years. I knew it was not resolved when you left with Bilbo, and I hoped you would be able to open up to him one day. I was so hopeful when you wrote, asking for those sketches.”

“I treasure them, Aunt. Thank you so much for making them. In the end it was not Bilbo but Bell Gamgee who helped me open the door and peep inside.”

Esmeralda’s dark brows arched. “Sam’s mother? Bilbo never told me that. Although I have noticed a change in you. I am glad that you found someone to talk to.”

“It was rather like today, in a way. I wondered into Bell's kitchen one day when she was ironing, and I suddenly remembered Mama doing that. Bell was very kind and wise, even though she thought I was about to faint. I thought I had come to terms with that day, and then I saw the man they dragged ashore today, and it was as though I was seeing Mama and Papa's bodies all over again.”

Esmeralda's eyes grew distant. “There will always be times when the past ambushes you like that. As the years pass, it happens less frequently, but it never really stops. Sometimes, when I tend one of the older folk through their last days, I remember my mother.” She began sliding the pillows away and helped Frodo ease down again. “Don’t be afraid of the memories, Frodo. They help make us who we are. Even the bad ones.” Esmeralda patted his hand. “Now, I think a little more sleep is in order for you. I shall present your apologies to Pippin and Sam.”

Frodo’s eyes widened and he made to get up again. “Sam! I had forgotten all about poor Sam. He must be out of his mind with worry. And young Pip must be scared too.”

Esmeralda pushed him down. “Do not be concerned. Your Uncle Saradoc said he would speak to them. He will tell them that you are feeling a little unwell, but that you will be recovered by tomorrow. You can explain further to Sam in the morning, if you wish, and I am sure that Merry will save you a piece of birthday cake.”

It was the following morning before Frodo returned to their shared room, and he hesitated at the sound of voices within.

Merry’ voice came first. “That was quite a party, wasn’t it?”

Pippin was bright, as usual. “The games were great fun, but I still say Diamond cheated at Blind Man's Bluff.”

Sam sounded less enthusiastic. “I’m sorry if I was a bit quiet, Master Merry, but I didn’t feel much like celebratin’, knowin’ my master was taken so strange.” His voice took on a mulish tone that made Frodo smile. “And I don’t know why your Ma wouldn’t let me sit with him. I would have been quiet as a mouse. Anyway, where is Mister Frodo? Your da said he would be back this mornin'.”

Frodo slipped into the room, unnoticed by his three companions, who were perched on the edge of Pippin's bed, their backs to the door as they stared out of the window.

Merry shrugged. “Mama says it’s something to do with Frodo’s parents. If he has not spoken to you about it I don’t think it would be right for me to.”

“I expect not. Will he be alright, though?” Pippin asked.

Merry linked arms with him. “Mama says so. She says he just needs a bit of time and she’s been sitting with him in the infirmary.”

“Were you there when his Ma and Pa died?” Sam asked.

Merry shook his head. “I wasn’t even born then. We Brandybucks like the river, but we learn, very early, not to take it for granted.”

“Well, that man was shot with an arrow. He weren’t killed by no river.”

“True. I wonder who he was and why he was shot. That arrow was far too big for a hobbit bow, and Papa says it was not fine enough to be elven crafted.” Merry chuckled. “Although I’m sure I don’t know when Papa ever saw an elven arrow.”

“Do you think he was one of those men that have been botherin’ your Bounders?”

“I don’t know. If he was, he must have had a falling out with more of his kind.”

Sam frowned. “Tis clear he was up to no good if he was this close to the Shire. As for fallin' out, Mr Bilbo used to say there ain't no honour among thieves.”

Merry snorted. “Those are brave words from a one time burglar. Come on. Let’s go for a walk. I’m fed up of sitting still.” He jumped up, suddenly stilling as he caught sight of Frodo framed in the doorway.

“Hello Sam, Pip. I’m so sorry I wasn’t at your party, Merry.”

Pippin ran forward to grab Frodo in a tight embrace. “Frodo. Thank goodness.”

Sam took a long moment to look Frodo up and down. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he broke into a broad smile. “Mr Frodo! Tis good to see you up and about. I was right worried about you.”

“I’m much better Sam. Merry, thank you for looking after them. Your Papa asked me to tell you not to be late for your lessons.”

Merry rolled his eyes. “Bother. I hoped I may be spared for one more day, but it seems not. Now I’ve come of age I hoped to convince everyone that I should not have to attend lessons any more, but Grandpapa Rory insists I still have lots more to learn. I tried to tell him that my head was already stuffed and would probably burst soon, but you know Grandpapa.” He studied his cousin closely. “Are you really alright?”

“I am. I’m sorry I worried you, but I really am feeling much better now.”

“I’d better go, then. Grandpa won't be kept waiting. I’ll probably see you at luncheon.” He dashed off, turning to call back, “I saved you some cake.”

“Thank you,” Frodo shouted to his retreating back. Now he turned back to Sam and Pippin. “Pip, would you mind if we left you for a little while. I'd like to talk to Sam.”

Pippin studied his cousin for a moment, then clasped him in another hug, before releasing Frodo and stepping back. “Don't ever do that to us again!”

Frodo offered a small smile. “I'll try not to, Pip.”

“Then go. I'm going to see if I can scare up a few biscuits from the kitchens.”

Frodo steered Sam from the room, calling over his shoulder, “Ask for Foxglove. She's always got a few treats set aside for tweens.”

“Walk with me, Sam.” Frodo led them out of the Hall and down the lane that ran toward Crickhollow. Soon high banks and hedges deadened the sound of the river, so that Frodo could almost imagine that he was back in Hobbiton and the safe heart of the Shire. “I expect I frightened you a bit yesterday,” he announced to a peace, laced with birdsong.

“Begin’ your pardon, but from the look of it at the time, you were more frightened than I was, sir. Though what it was that you saw, that we didn't, I can't think.”

Frodo chuckled. “You may be right. It’s just that, seeing that body dragged from the river reopened old wounds I had thought long healed.”

“Was it to do with your Ma and Pa?”

“I expect Merry told you but he doesn't know the details. You know, I was there on the morning they brought them to shore.” Frodo shook his head, slowly. “I knew it in my mind, but I could remember nothing of it. Aunt Esme says I never cried or spoke of it in all the years that I lived here.”

“I heard tell that they drowned, but you never said anythin’ and neither did Mr Bilbo, so I wasn’t sure if it was just a nasty tale. They said some other nasty things too.”

“I've heard those rumours about my mother dragging father in.” Frodo smiled. “Oh Sam, you are such a capital fellow. I wish everyone in the Shire paid as little attention to gossip as you. The world would be a much better place.” He drew Sam aside, to allow passage for a pony and cart, and the two sat climbed up, to sit atop the steep grassy bank. “One evening my Papa took Mama out in a boat on the river. Everyone tells me it was a quiet evening and the river was as calm as a mill-pond. Mama had been around boats all her life, so nobody thought to check on them, but the next morning they did not come down to breakfast, and a search eventually found their bodies in the river. Uncle Sara said the boat could have been swept miles down stream or may even have sunk. Mama and Papa had become tangled in some overhanging tree branches, or they would have been swept away too.”

“Had they been shot?”

“Gracious, no. There was hardly a mark on them, just a few scratches from the branches. I suspect we will never know what happened. Seeing them drag that man out of the river yesterday just brought it all back. For years I pretended I was not there but I remember it so clearly now.” Frodo shuddered. “Uncle Sara closed their eyes but I saw. Their eyes were so empty. They weren’t my Mama and Papa any more. It was such a shock that I suppose I just wanted to shut it all away.”

Sam nodded. “Ma went in her sleep, but even though I couldn’t see her eyes I knew when she was gone. If you take my meanin’. Her body was still there but she was gone. It weren’t her any more.”

Frodo laid a hand about Sam’s shoulder and touched his head to his friends’. “No matter the circumstance, it's always hard losing someone you love.”

That afternoon a private tea was held in the Brandybuck family dining room. A portion of Merry’s birthday cake had been set aside, to be shared between Esmeralda, Saradoc, Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry, and Esmeralda provided sandwiches and buns. The sadness of yesterday was set aside as they helped Merry celebrate what Frodo declared to be his, ‘Birthday-and-a-bit Party’.

A few days later, as Frodo, Pippin and Sam crossed the Brandywine Bridge, Frodo paused to drop two small bunches of flowers into the river. For some minutes he watched them sail serenely away, then shouldered his pack and followed his companions as they turned for Hobbiton and home.


	20. Chapter 20

Frodo sat by the open parlour window, pipe in hand and glass of wine at his side. No fire was set this fine summer evening, and the candles had long since guttered out, but he did not bother to replace them. In the village below, lights twinkled, and a lantern glowed outside the Ivy Bush. Light spilled onto the market square from it's open door, and the breeze teased him with a line of song, only to snatch it away before he could name it. Then, again, the voice was that of Daddy Twofoot, so even those sitting in the pub with him could probably not have named it.

Bag End was silent, but for the ticking of the parlour clock. Sam had long since gone home for the day and was no doubt sitting in Number Three's kitchen, talking with his father about the doings of family.

Taking a sip of wine, Frodo leaned closer to the open casement, watching the smoke from his pipe curl up toward a sky crowded with stars. The moon was newly risen, so he could not see it from this side of the hill, but he could see how it limned the smials and cottages below in a silver glow. His imagination supplied a view through walls and roofs. Faunts would be dreaming in their beds as parents discussed the events of their day, the price of wheat, the scandals, real or imagined, of their neighbours. There would be no talk of elves or dwarves, of magic or dragons.

He took another sip of wine, noting that it was the last. He would have to pour another glass. As he stood, turning back toward the still parlour, he slipped a hand into his pocket to touch Bilbo's ring, on its sturdy chain. Suddenly the walls, within and without, seemed to draw in on him and, rather than pour that wine, Frodo headed determinedly for the hall, and selected a walking staff from the stand. He needed fresh air and high skies.

Instead of making for Hobbiton and companionship, he turned left at the gate, taking the lane that wound up and over the hill. At the brow he paused to stare at the full moon, and a snippet of one of Bilbo's nonsense rhymes ran through his head.

There is an inn, a merry old inn,   
beneath an old grey hill,  
And there they brew a beer so brown  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
one night to drink his fill.

Thoughts of Bilbo set his feet moving again, moon-silvered eyes more often upon the high stars than the road beneath him. It was one of those balmy nights born of a string of hot summer days, and the air was laced with the perfume of night blooming flowers. In a copse he heard the lone hoot of an owl, then an echoing reply from some distant barn. A silent winged shadow drifted high over his head as the owl took flight. Was he going to hunt, or perhaps to seek out the female owner of that distant hoot?

“Mr Baggins, what brings ye out? Was ye comin' fer me?”

Frodo blinked his gaze back to earth, to see sturdy figure hurrying toward him. He smiled. “Hello Aster. I don't think I have need of a midwife tonight, but from the look of you, someone does.”

Aster adjusted the huge satchel slung across her round frame. “Bert sent word that Flora's been brought to childbed. With luck there'll be a new life in Hobbiton by dawn.”  
“The Fennelly's deserve some joy after all this time. They have mourned poor little Dilly for years now.”

Aster nodded. “Aye. That was a hard year. Too many folk, young and old, were lost afore their time to that influenza. But if yer not lookin' fer me, what brings ye out in the middle of the night, with not even a packet of food fer the journey?”

Frodo shrugged as he leaned on his staff. “I just fancied a walk. My feet itch sometimes. And shouldn't you be hurrying?”

Aster rolled her eyes. “Typical lad. Flora will be workin' fer hours yet.” She looked Frodo up and down, pursing her lips. “Tis a strange hour fer a stroll, lad. Most folk choose daylight, when they can see what's about 'em. But ye weren't lookin' about.” She hitched a thumb at the vast sky above them.

Frodo followed her thumb, his mind tangling with the silver disc of the moon, high above. It was Aster's tap on his shoulder that brought him back to earth, and he found her at his side, staring deep into his eyes. “Yer a hobbit, Frodo Baggins. Not an elf, nor a dragon, to be wonderin' the stars. Dig yer toes into this good earth and gather yer friends about ye. I'm still hopin' to see the inside of that fancy Bag End one day, when I bring yer bairn into this world.” With those words she let him go, stepping quickly down the lane, toward Hobbiton's little community.

For a moment Frodo considered following, then an errant moonbeam gleamed upon the gold ring in his palm. When had he drawn it out of his pocket? He frowned, before tucking it away again, and striding determinedly in the opposite direction.

He would later remember little of that night, beyond the slow wheel of stars above his head. Finally, he turned away from the first pale yellow glow of a golden sunrise, and slipped quietly into the shared back yard behind Bagshot Row. Smoke was just beginning to ghost from chimneys, as grates were riddled and kitchen ranges fed with fresh logs. Down the lane a cock crowed and somewhere in the distance a cow lowed to be milked. Frodo slipped past curtained windows, to enter Bag End via the kitchen door. 

“Mister Frodo! Thank goodness!”

Caught. Determined to make the best of it, Frodo set his walking staff by the door and smiled brightly. “Good morning, Sam. I was just taking an early walk.”

Sam folded his arms and fixed Frodo with a stern glare. “Early? I came, late last night, to bank the range for you and it seemed too quiet. Tis not like you to go to bed much before midnight, so I thought maybe you was sick. I thought I'd just pop my head around your bedroom door to check, but you weren't poorly.”

Frodo winced. “I'm sorry, Sam. I often go for a walk late at night. Around midnight is the best time to star-gaze.”

Sam blushed. “There's no call to apologise for walkin', sir. You've a right to walk where you will and when. Tis just that I was expectin' you to be here and you weren't.”

“I am sorry that I worried you, Sam. I shall let you know when I intend to go for any more midnight strolls.”

“Thank you, sir. Tis not that I'm nosey about your comin's and goin's, nor that I want you to stop them, but I worry. If you get hurt nobody would know that you'd even left home.” He set water to boil. “What's so special about starlight, anyway?”

Frodo shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe I inherited my love of starlight from Bilbo and all his stories about elves.”

As he suspected it would, mention of elves softened Sam. “From what Mr Bilbo told, elves are certainly a folk for stars. I wonder if I'll ever get to meet one some day.”

Frodo hid a smile, for Sam had already met elves. Sadly, Sam had been unconscious at the time, so Frodo mused that he should more properly say that the elves met Sam. He satisfied himself with, “Maybe you will, one day.”

-0-

Frodo nodded to Rosemary Proudfoot as he passed Dandelion Clocks, and unlatched the Brockbank's brown garden gate. Daisy opened the door before he could knock. “Hello, Frodo. I was just thinkin' about you. Come in.”

As he entered the spotless kitchen, Frodo looked about for the children and Daisy grinned. “Sit down. Cup of tea?” Without waiting for an answer, she took down the tea caddy.

“Where are the children?” Frodo took a seat at the scrubbed table. Watching the comfortable routine as Daisy swirled a little boiling water in the pot and tipped it out, before spooning in the tea and filling it.

“They're with Ruby.” Daisy stirred the tea before replacing the lid, then began to gather cups, milk and honey.

“Ruby? Bartimus' sister?” His incredulous tone was probably not unexpected, and Daisy chuckled as she slid half a dozen biscuits onto a plate. “She's been gettin' broody ever since she started walkin' out with Arlo Banks.”

Frodo looked askance. “Are you certain you trust Ruby with your children?”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. What do you take me for? They're as safe with her as they would be with you.” Now she winked as she poured the thick brew into his cup. “And I thought it would be good for her to see what she may be gettin' into.”

“You think they may be getting serious, then?” Frodo added a generous spoonful of honey.

“Oh yes. Not before time, too. Bartimus loves his sister, and I love her because he does. But Ruby has always been a handful. Tis well past time she settled down to just one lad.” Daisy shook her head. “She's far too free with her favours and lucky she aint been caught out.” 

She gave Frodo a hard stare and he took a sip of his tea. Ruby had set her sights on Frodo at one Harvest Reel, and he vividly remembered their eager fumblings in the dark, behind a hedgerow. If things had not gone too far, it had been due more to the warnings drummed into him by his Uncle Saradoc, than any reticence on Ruby's part.

Daisy took pity and changed the subject. “Not that I don't appreciate the visit, but what brings you to my door? Bartimus won't be home from work for hours yet.”

Frodo shrugged. “If I'm honest, I was bored at home and decided to take a walk. My feet led me here. But you said you had been thinking of me. What was on your mind?”

Daisy swallowed a bite of her biscuit before replying. “Tis only that Sam noticed you seemed a bit restless of late and Bartimus and me had a thought.”

“Restless? Yes. I suppose I have been a bit unsettled. I don't know why, and I suppose I should not be surprised that Sam has noticed.”

“He's a quiet one but there's not much gets past our Sam.” Daisy scowled. “And Aster Tunnelly can be a bit of a gossip when she sets her mind to it. Anyway, Bartimus and me have been invited to a birthday party over Frogmorton way next week. We'll be stayin' overnight with family and walkin' back the next day and, the weather bein' so good of late, we wondered if you and Sam would like to meet us in Bywater for a picnic on the way back. Then we can walk the rest of the way home together. That way you'll get a good walk, to soothe your itchy feet, and we'll have a bit of company.”

Frodo chuckled. “And Sam will stop fretting about me taking long walks at night.”

Daisy frowned. “He did mention it. Why ever do you do that, anyway?”

“I just like walking under the stars. And the nights have been so clear of late.”

“Well, next time just let Sam know before hand. Poor lad said he was scared half witless when he came in that night, to find no sign of you and no word left of the reason for your goin'. I reckon he thought you'd been carried off by a wizard or a gaggle of dwarves.”

“No wizard, but I am willing to be carried off to a picnic by the Brockbank family. What day will you be coming home?”

Daisy accepted the change of topic with good grace. “We'll be comin' home on Hevensday and should be at Bywater by noon...assumin' Barti don't get too deep into his cups at the party, the night before.”

“The only time I ever saw Barti drunk was when he was courting you, Daisy Brockbank.”

Daisy laughed. “I did like to keep him on his toes.”

-0-

“Frodo Baggins! Just look at the state of the knees on your breeches!” Daisy Brockbank cried, as her friend clambered to his feet.

Frodo only grinned, brushing ineffectually at the grass stains. He had spent the last half hour on hands an knees, playing pony for a wildly giggling Bell. “It’s alright, Daisy. They’re my old ones.”

“Old ones he says,” scoffed Daisy. “There’s a good few years wear still to be had from them, if you ever get the grass stains out and don't put your knees through 'em.”

“I’ll take a go at washin’ them when we get home, Mr Frodo,” Sam offered in his most earnest tone, whilst shooting what he obviously considered a quelling glance at his older sister.

Daisy was her mother’s daughter, however, and not easily cowed by one she had helped raise. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you look sideways at me, little brother. Call him Mister Frodo if you like, but if he’s family enough to play pony for our Bell, he’s family enough to bear being told off by her mother.”

Frodo and Bartimus both laughed as Frodo threw himself down upon a rug, and little Bell tucked herself in at his side. “You’ll not win that argument, Sam. In fact I’ve yet to meet an argument that your sister did not win.” He offered a sandwich to his honorary niece and Bell helped herself to two, despite her mother’s frown.

That was the cue for a second round of eating, and conversation faded as mouths were stuffed with bread and cakes instead of words. Between the party left-overs and additional fare brought by Sam and Frodo, there was more food than even half a dozen hobbits could consume. The afternoon was warm and drowsy, encouraging them to linger. 

In the act of offering around another plate of buns Bartimus nodded discretely at the mill across the pond. “Don’t look now, but Orton Sandyman is watching us again.”

As usual, Daisy disregarded her husband, turning about to stare pointedly at the figure standing by an open upper window. “You’d think he’d have better things to do than curdle our milk,” she announced, loudly. Whether Orton heard her above the sound of the water wheel was debatable, but he clearly realised that he was noticed and drew back, slamming the window shut behind him.

Bartimus shook his head. “You see what I have to put up with every day, Frodo? My wife shows me no respect at all.”

Daisy batted his arm. “I respect you well enough. It’s that Orton and his da I’ve no time for. And his grandpa’s no better, although at least he stays out of sight.”

Frodo considered the slightly run-down mill. “He’s been bed-bound for so many years. His cannot be a pleasant life. And don’t be too harsh on Orton. His father drinks more than is good for him, which can't be easy for the rest of the family.”

Leaning over to swipe at her daughter’s face with a hanky, Daisy sighed. “You’re too soft, Frodo Baggins. That Orton will get fed up of his mischief-making and do something really nasty one of these days. You mark my words and remember when he does.”

Sam turned to offer his own glower at Bywater Mill, but there was no further sign of a face at window or door.

“Come on, everyone. If we don’t set out now we won’t be home in time for tea.” Frodo offered one more considering glance at the mill before helping Daisy gather up the few remnants of their repast.

Once their packing was done, the little party set off in good heart for Hobbiton. Sam watched Bell, who kept skipping ahead and then hopping back to join her parents. “Mr Frodo, why is Ted’s da bed-bound?”

Frodo broke step in surprise. “I thought everyone knew.”

Sam shrugged. “You know how Da is about not spreadin’ gossip. I knew he was abed but I don't think I ever thought to ask why. Leastwise, I don't remember askin'.”

“Well, I only know what I’ve been told by others. As I heard it, and I honestly cannot remember now from who, Ryle Sandyman likes his beer, although I don’t suppose he gets much nowadays.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure on that. Ted used to take home a jug from the Ivy sometimes. Leastwise, he said it was for his Da.”

“Did he? Well it appears you know something that I did not. Anyway, you are aware that the mill has several floors?”

Sam shuddered. “I do, though I aint never been inside and I don’t think it’s natural for a hobbit to climb so high.”

Frodo grinned. He had learned to climb trees at a young age, and was fully cognisant of the opinions of most of Hobbiton on that particular skill. “Well, one night Ryle had a drop too much ale, and then decided that he would carry out some work in the mill. I think it’s an sign of just how drunk he was, that he considered that a good idea, in the middle of the night.”

Sam shook his head. “Too much beer or not, that sounds like a daft thing to do.”

“I agree. Anyway, he was near the top of the mill, on a ladder, when he lost his footing and fell. I'm told he broke his back.”

“There’s some as say it was a pity it weren’t his neck,” came Daisy’s voice from behind them.

“Oh, have a heart, Daisy,” Frodo chided. “I think all these years, stuck in his bed, must be a kind of death.”

“Humph!” was her only reply.

Sam leaned in the murmur, “I reckon you’re right, Mr Frodo. I'd hate to be so sickly.”

At that point Bell, who had gone exploring, returned with a pretty blue flower. “What’s this called, Uncle Sam?”

“That’s a cornflower, lass.” He smiled. “But next time just point to it and I’ll tell you the name. Cornflowers don’t take kindly to bein’ picked and twill be wilted before we get home. Come on, let's go see if we can find some different ones to give names.”

Frodo could hear his friends talking behind him, their voices channelled by the high banks and hedges that ran along both sides of the road. “Will it be lad or lass, do you think?” Bartimus asked.

“I don’t care, as long as it’s healthy and bides its time in here,” Daisy replied, and Frodo remembered her laying a tender hand upon her belly when she carried Ashlee there. Now Ashlee dozed, draped over his Da’s broad shoulder.

The lane from Bywater to Hobbiton was old and well-travelled, so it was cut deeply between high grass banks, topped with hawthorn, and just here, overhung with oak and chestnut trees. It seemed to Frodo that they walked through some mysterious green tunnel, that twisted and turned about the occasional clump of trees. He was reminded of Bilbo's descriptions of the path through Mirkwood. Thankfully, the Shire had no giant spiders. Some suggested that the trees had been there for longer than the road, and Frodo could see no other reason for the way it threaded about their boles, there being no hills to navigate.

Somewhere, in the distance, behind them, could be heard the clip and rumble of a pony and cart, but with so many blind corners and no flat verge for walkers, it was usual for drivers to slow down at this part of the road. Bartimus’ only concession to caring for his family, therefore, was to call Sam and young Bell closer.

Frodo tried not to listen in on what was apparently a private conversation and, Sam was admiring a honeysuckle that scattered it’s yellow and red blossoms through the hedge above them. “Do you want to wait a while longer before telling your Gaffer?” Bartimus asked. At Frodo's side Bell bent to look at a bright butterfly, that had come to rest upon a tall pink spike of willow herb.

“Aye. He’ll worrit until the birth, so the less time he has for that, the better. Marigold’s given him enough to think on, with her first due in a couple of months.”

“He never got over that last one your Ma lost, did he?” The clip of the pony’s hooves was growing louder, sounding a little fast to Frodo's ears.

“I reckon not. But it happens sometimes. They lost their first as well you know. Da thinks losin’ that last bairn was the reason Ma took sick and died, even though the doctor said it was nothin’ to do with it.” Daisy looked about for her daughter, named for her grandmother, and held out her hand. “Come on, Bell, lass. There’s a cart comin’ and we don’t want to hold it up. Put a trot on.” Bell had fallen behind again, lost in a world of her imagining, and now came running, not to her mother, but to grab her Uncle Sam’s hand. Daisy rolled her eyes. “I swear that lass grows more like me with every day.”

The road began to straighten as they passed the last tree, although the grass banks continued high and steep to either side, their tops still crowned with a hedge of sharp hawthorn, draped with fragrant honeysuckle. Frodo glanced back too, for it seemed to him that the rhythm of the pony was increasing now, the rumble of the wheels deeper. Whoever was driving seemed to have little care for what may be hiding beyond the bend, and he worried it may be some outlander big folk. Of late, some had begun to sneak through the Shire, however hard the Bounders tried to dissuade them.

Picking up on Daisy’s disquiet, Sam and Frodo ushered Bell ahead of them and Sam confided, “Whoever it is, he sounds to be travellin’ a mite too fast for the road.”

Frodo nodded for him to pick up the pace, watching as Bartimus shepherded his wife flock to a single line at the very edge of the road. “If he keeps up that speed he could turn the cart over when he attempts that last bend.”

Daisy sniffed. “Serve him right if he does. He should know better on this stretch. Even a wizard can’t see round corners.” She paused to take a breath. “Leastwise I hope wizards can’t do that.”

Frodo eyed the banks in growing concern. Not only were they very steep, but he knew that the long grass hid many a rabbit hole and molehill. Anyone trying to climb them would likely break an ankle before being high enough to avoid traffic, indeed would probably be pitched headlong into that traffic. He glanced back again, to see a tan pony, it’s eyes rolling, fly around the bend. Behind it, came the miller’s cart, almost on two wheels as it banked around the camber of the turn. Orton Sandyman held the reins, his teeth bared in a wild grin as he flicked a long whip above the poor pony’s broad rump.

Daisy screamed as Bartimus thrust Ashlee into her arms and all but threw the pair onto the verge. Bell stood, frozen, in the very centre of the road and Bartimus scooped her up a split second before Frodo, only just managing to whisk her out from beneath the front hooves of the wildly neighing pony. He was not fast enough to miss the cart wheels, however. He and Bell were spun violently aside to lie in a tangled heap high upon the verge. Frodo was tugged aside by Sam, but not before he felt the corner of the cart's tailgate catch his arm. 

Orton half rose from his seat, the grin gone, his face white, and Frodo thought for a moment that he intended to stop, but then he spun forward and whipped the poor, sweating pony on, to disappear around the next bend.

Ashlee was screaming, his little face almost puce, and Daisy distractedly tried to soothe him as she scrambled along the verge to check husband and daughter, who remained silent and unmoving. “Barti! Bell, love!” As she reached them Bartimus groaned and began to move, his limbs at first flailing aimlessly. Frodo and Sam darted in to work upon gently untangling limbs, and checking for injuries.

“I’m alright, I think.” Bartimus mumbled, having done his best to protect Bell with his own body. Unfortunately, Bell had ended up beneath him when they landed. Now her eyes were closed, and she lay, pale and still as a discarded rag doll. Falling to her knees at their side, Daisy watched, for once speechless, as Frodo ran his hands along Bell’s skinny arms and legs. With a start, Daisy began to do the same to little Ashlee, still clutched tightly to her bosom. She sighed, obviously finding no apparent hurt, but the little faunt would not stop crying so she dare not set him down to help.

Frodo blanched when his hands reached Bell’s right calf, which was clearly deformed. When he touched it Bell screamed out, “Da!” and Bartimus scrambled to reassure her. “It’s alright, lass. You’re safe. Just lie still for your Uncle Frodo. He didn't mean to hurt you. Does anything else hurt?”

Bell shook her head, bursting into tears when her right temple touched the grass. She squirmed as, probing as gently as he could, Frodo found a small gash, just within her hairline. “Da!” Frodo drew on what he hoped was a calm and confident expression. “It’s alright, Pumpkin. You’ve just a small cut. Lie still for me, now.” Shrugging out of his jacket, he spread it over Bell. It covered almost to her ankles, and he folded back one corner so that it put no pressure on what he strongly suspected was a broken leg.

Leaning in, Bartimus took a moment to kiss Daisy’s brow and stroke a finger along Ashlee’s pink and tear-stained cheek. “We need help. We can keep the bairns quiet if someone can run into Hobbiton.”

“I’ll go,” Sam offered, but Frodo overrode him, “No. I’ll go. I’m the faster runner.” He patted Sam’s arm. “You look after the others.”

Sam nodded, wrapping an arm about his sister's shoulder. Daisy’s face was set in black anger as she called after him, “Frodo, if you see that Orton Sandyman on your way, you’d best hit him hard, 'cause if I see him first I’m like to kill him!” Nobody bothered to deny her for, at that moment, all were hotly inclined to murder.

Frodo could not recall a time when he had run so far or so fast. Oh, he had walked further many times, but never had he felt such fear snapping at his heels. Bell probably had a broken leg, Ashlee was at the least, traumatised, and who knew the fate of Daisy’s unborn child. By the time he rapped the knocker of Dandelion Clocks, Doctor Proudfoot’s cottage, he had hardly breath to speak.

It was Rosemary Proudfoot who answered the door and Frodo was to declare later that, for once, he could not remember what wild concoction of clothing the doctor’s wife was wearing at that moment. When she saw Frodo, one hand upon the door frame, and bent double as he drew in huge sawing breaths, she called over her shoulder, “Ade, you’re needed!”

By the time Adelard had reached the door, Frodo had enough mastery of his lungs to gasp out, “Accident. Bywater Road. Brockbank family.”

Adelard grabbed his large carpet-bag from a table by the door. “How many injured?” He ushered Frodo out of the door and on, toward the Ivy Bush, which held the only large stable and coach house in the village.

Frodo was beginning to breathe normally at last. “Little Bell. I think she has a broken leg and a bump on the head. Ashlee and Bartimus are just shocked I think, but I’m worried about Daisy. She’s expecting their third.” They reached the stable and Ferdi Grub guessed at once their purpose. “Will ye be wantin’ the cart or the trap, Doctor?”

“The cart, Ferdi. Bed it with straw and, when you’ve tacked up, you’d best run over to Gaffer Gamgee’s place to let him know that Bartimus and Daisy will need help, when we get them home. Oh, and then run on and ask Aster Tunnelly to come along to their cottage, please.”

As they waited, Frodo could not help but pace and eventually Adelard took him by the shoulders. “Easy, there. You haven’t said whether you are hurt.”

Frodo shrugged. “I’m alright. Sam dragged me free in time.”

“Not quite, I think.” Adelard touched a point on Frodo’s right arm and when he held up his fingers for inspection they were coated in blood. Frodo blinked, looking down to see a large rip in his shirt sleeve. His eyes widened as he saw blood dripping off his fingers, and was overtaken by a wave of nausea. 

“Dragged free, you say. Dragged free of what?” Adelard pushed his charge down upon an upturned bucket and bent to examine the injury, while Frodo willed the methodical Ferdi to work faster at linking the doctor’s pony to Borden Brewer’s cart. “Orton Sandyman,” Frodo spit out, with unaccustomed venom. “I could almost swear he drove his cart at us deliberately. He didn't even stop afterwards.”

Ferdi choked, causing the pony to flinch as he accidentally cinched a strap too tight. Adelard showed no reaction beyond a pursing of his lips. Frodo was sure that Ferdi moved slower than usual, but by the time the doctor had wrapped a temporary bandage about Frodo’s upper arm the task was done.

“There. That should see you for a while. I’ll need to put a couple of stitches in it later.” He studied Frodo a moment, then nodded. “I’ll take you with me in the cart. For I doubt you would stay here, even were I to ask.”

Frodo nodded, hoisting himself on the board beside the doctor without comment. Ferdi opened wide the double doors, giving them a quick salute before trotting off in the direction of Bagshot Row.

If Frodo had begrudged the time spent waiting for the cart to be tacked, he soon acknowledged Adelard’s good sense. They made much better time back down the road to Bywater than he could have done on foot. They found the site of the incident (Frodo was loath to call it an accident) easily enough, for Sam stood in the middle of the road to wave them down.

“Thank goodness, sirs. Bell is crying fit to bust and I’m not happy about the look of our Daisy, neither.”

Adelard jumped down. “Sam, can you help me tending the injured, please. Frodo, you keep an eye on the cart and the road. We don’t want any more accidents.”

Bartimus snarled, jumping to his feet. “It was no accident. That damned Orton made straight for us. When I see him I’ll wring his bloody neck!” In his arms, Ashlee began to wail again, and Adelard handed the infant off to Sam, before pushing Bartimus to sit upon the bank.

“We’ll talk of blame and punishments later. For now, we need to tend the injured and get you all home.” Adelard checked the silent Daisy first, the arms wrapped about her belly and her white face giving him more cause for concern than Bell’s crying, for the moment. “Are you having pains?” he asked, checking the life flow at her wrist.

“No. I just c…can’t s…stop sh…shaking.”

As he ran expert hands along her limbs the doctor instructed Sam to fetch blankets from the cart. “Now Daisy, you’ve had a nasty shock so let Sam wrap you in a blanket. It will stop the shivering. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“N...no. See to B...Bell first. I’m a...alright.”

A quick run of expert fingers about her ribs and Adelard nodded, turning his attention to Bell. Although the injury to her lower leg was clear, he took time to check her thoroughly and probed gently at the area around the bruise on her skull, before accepting Ashlee from Bartimus and examining the faunt in like manner. He handed Ashlee back to Sam. “Just keep him warm and try to soothe him. It’s difficult to tell at this age, but I don’t think anything is broken. To be safe, watch his breathing if he falls asleep.” Bartimus was next and the doctor insisted that he sit still while he checked his skull, before finally declaring, “You'll do. Make yourself useful. Find a straight branch to splint your daughter’s leg.”

Daisy took Bell’s hand in hers, bending to kiss her brow. “It’s alright, bairn. The doctor will have you feeling better soon.” It was doubtful that Bell heard her over her own wails.

Frodo watched all from his place at the pony’s head, feeling more helpless than he could remember at any other time in his life. Adelard Proudfoot was well trained, however, and soon Bell's leg was straightened, all were bandaged, physicked, and wrapped in blankets in the back of the cart. Ever capable, Sam took the reins while the doctor rode with his charges.

By the time they arrived in Hobbiton, word had spread, and a large crowd was gathered in the square outside the cottage gate. Marigold and Hamfast had lit fires and turned down beds and, surprisingly, Rosemary Proudfoot was filling basins with hot water and stirring a big pot on the kitchen range.

Sam lead the pony and cart back to the stable, and Frodo found himself standing in the back yard, alone. A sudden rush of nausea had him lurching to the privy, where he relieved himself of every last bit of the food he had eaten that day. When he came out, it was all he could do to stay on his feet long enough to find a patch of grass. Once there, his knees folded beneath him.

Sam found him there a little while later, and helped him into the kitchen, where Rosemary pressed a cup of broth into his hands. Her brisk injunction to, “Drink that now, or I’ll pour it down your throat myself, Mister Baggins,” helped draw Frodo from the haze he had fallen into. After a few sips he looked about, to see Sam at his side, also meekly drinking.

“Are you feelin’ better, sir?”

“A bit. Thank you, Sam. How are the others?” His eyes widened as he saw the mud and grass stains on Sam’s shirt. “I never thought to ask. How are you?”

It was Rosemary Proudfoot who answered, from where she was standing at the kitchen sink, washing crockery. “Bartimus and Daisy are just shaken. The midwife says Daisy’s bairn will be alright, as long as she stays in bed for a few days. Adelard is neatening up the splint on Bell’s leg. Gaffer Gamgee will sit with them through the night to make sure that bump on her head doesn’t turn into something nasty.” When she saw Frodo blanch she tutted. “It’s just a precaution. She’s looking bright enough now that she’s had a drop of medicine for the pain. Children pull through these things faster than adults.” 

Usually, Frodo would challenge any comments made by Rosemary on the raising of children, but she was the doctor's wife. “And Ashlee?” Frodo asked, relieved to note that the trembling in his hands was fading with each sip of broth. Rosemary had her faults, goodness knows, but when it came down to the wire, it seemed she did not flinch from a little work.

“Marigold will watch him for the night too. He’s mainly worn out from crying, but there are no injuries. From what Sam tells me, Bartimus did some very quick thinking.”

Sam managed a weak smile. “I don’t think any of us has moved that quickly before.”

At that moment, Adelard strode into the kitchen. His sleeves were rolled up and his step was brisk as he crossed to peer into Frodo and Sam’s eyes. Nodding, he set his bag upon the table and drew up a chair at Frodo’s side. “Rosemary, I’ll need hot water and cloths. Frodo here needs a couple of stitches.”

Half an hour later Frodo was trudging home, with an attentive Daddy Twofoot at his elbow. The doctor had insisted that Frodo not walk alone, particularly after making him down a small cup of medicine. Alver, who with several others had been hanging around the garden gate for news, offered to escort him. At the door to Bag End, he bid Frodo good afternoon, with the promise that he would check up on him in the morning.

Sam remained with his family in the village and, despite feeling a little too alone for a while, Frodo could not begrudge his friend that comfort. For his part, Frodo paused only long enough to remove his blood stained breeches, before falling into bed. His last thought, before Dr Proudfoot's medicine finally carried him down into sleep, was that Daisy would doubtless chide him for not putting those breeches to soak in cold water. He knew nothing more until dawn the next day.


	21. Chapter 21

Daddy Twofoot was as good as his word, and came calling as Frodo was preparing breakfast. He had been awaiting Alver's arrival and now Frodo pulled a tray of bacon from the oven. “That arm’s still stiff I see,” Alver noted as Frodo set a bacon sandwich and mug of tea before him.

Taking as seat opposite, Frodo shrugged. “It could have been much worse. Speaking of which, have you heard anything of Bartimus and Daisy this morning? I intend to walk down there myself later.” Whatever Doctor Proudfoot had dosed him with the previous afternoon, had dropped Frodo into a deep sleep that did not see him rousing until other folk were sitting down to second breakfast. No doubt Alver had been up and about for hours.

Alver paused to swallow before nodding. “The doctor says Bartimus is up, if a bit stiff. Daisy and Bell are to stay abed for another few days. Word of what happened got around and there’s been a lot of talk in the village I can tell ye.”

Frowning, Frodo set down his own sandwich, having taken only one bite. “What sort of talk?”

“There's none of it good, if ye ask me. They’re sayin’ that Orton Sandyman wants lockin' up…or stringin' up. Last I heard, there’s more folk shoutin’ for stringin’ than hangin’.

Frodo pushed aside his plate, suddenly having lost his appetite. “You know, we can never be certain that Orton did it on purpose. That pony of his has always been on the skittish side.”

Alver gave a disbelieving twitch of his, not inconsequential, nose. “Young Bartimus says Orton used the whip as he were comin’ down the lane. That pony may be skittish, but a whip aint goin' to slow it down, that's fer sure.”

“It all happened so fast, Daddy Twofoot. I saw the whip, but whether Orton actually used it, I honestly could not say. I was too busy getting out of the way.”

“Aye, well, Bartimus says he saw it clear enough, and tis tellin’ to many that Orton aint been seen out and about today. Ted made the deliveries to Olin Baker this mornin’, and ye know that's usually Orton’s job.”

“Did Ted say anything about the incident?”

Alver pushed aside his empty plate. “Ha! Ye know Ted Sandyman as well as me. What do ye think?” Alver did not wait for Frodo’s reply. “He just frowned down that long nose of his and told folk to mind to their own business.” He patted his expansive tummy. “Which is what I’ll be doin’, now I’ve seen yer well enough. Will I see ye down the Ivy Bush tonight? There’s talk of a meetin’, and I heard Bartimus speakin' of bringin’ a length of rope.”

“Maybe.” Frodo saw Alver to the kitchen door, then put on his jacket and took up his walking staff. He was no longer in any mood for breakfast. It was time to stretch stiff limbs.

Three hours later Frodo was standing outside Bywater Mill. Opening the gate to the tiny garden, he surveyed the many windows, but there was no sign of any of the mill’s occupants. Drawing a deep breath, he knocked upon the arched door. Several flakes of paint showered the ground at his feet, a testament to the building’s general state of disrepair. Feeling a little uncharitable, Frodo settled upon the thought that it was difficult to balance upon a ladder to paint, whilst drunk.

About to knock again, Frodo almost overbalanced himself, when the door was yanked open. Ted Sandyman was not drunk, but from the bloodshot state of his eyes it was clear that his sobriety was but a temporary state. No doubt he and his son would be making for the Green Dragon as soon as work was done, if they dared. Frodo had to give them credit for getting the job done at least. Hobbiton and its surroundings were never short of fresh milled flour.

Ted’s scowl could have boiled milk. “What do you want, Baggins?”

Frodo resisted the temptation to add fuel to the already smouldering fire. “May I speak with you, Mister Sandyman?” He glanced up the lane, where one of the Shire’s matrons was hurrying her brood along. “Inside.”

Ted shrugged, his air of nonchalance spoiled when the action caused him to narrow his eyes and wince against what Frodo assumed was a hangover. Still feeling a mite uncharitable, Frodo bit back a smile at his obvious discomfort. The miller stepped aside. “If you must.”

Frodo stepped into an unexpectedly spotless and tidy kitchen. Betony Sandyman stood in a corner, wiping already clean hands on a towel. Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she enquired of her husband, “Shall I make tea, Ted?”

“I don’t think Mister Baggins will be stopping long.” Ted sat at the table, arms folded, and Frodo noted that he was not invited to join his reluctant host. Rather than make a point of it, he remained standing, walking staff resting loosely in the crook of his arm.

Of Orton there was no sign, although Frodo had spotted the pony and cart in their accustomed shelter, and the water wheel was not turning, indicating that Ted’s son was neither away from home nor working at the mill stones. Bywater Mill was one of the few buildings in the Shire that rose to more than one floor, and a steep wooden staircase climbed from the kitchen to a small landing, with doors opening off it. Frodo could imagine Orton standing with an ear to the other side of one of those doors, so he let his voice rise a little. “I take it you heard of the incident on Bywater Road yesterday afternoon?”

Betony’s hand flew to her mouth but immediately dropped again, at a growl from her husband. Ted stared haughtily at Frodo. “If you mean the one where you and your friends were prancing about in the middle of the road, stopping honest working folk from getting on with their business, yes.”

Frodo was finding it more and more difficult to keep his breathing slow and steady as he forced his grip on the staff to relax. “The road narrows there. You know that well enough. Most cart drivers take that into account and slow down.”

“That’s up to them. There’s no law about it, and there's a verge for walkers.”

“There is a steep bank and it is full of rabbit holes, as Orton also knows well enough,” Frodo corrected with a glance up the stairs. “There are some who are suggesting that Orton may have deliberately driven at my friends and me.”

Ted stood so suddenly that his chair toppled backwards and Betony shrank further into her corner. “Who says so? I’d like to see them prove it!” He leaned across the table to jab a finger into Frodo's chest. “Is it you, Baggins? Who’s going to listen to the nephew of a liar at best and a thief at worst?”

“Who’s there?” came a querulous voice from the closed door to their left.

“It’s nothin', Da.” Ted flicked a wrist and Betony slipped quickly from the kitchen, to tend her father-by-marriage.

Frodo stood his ground, refusing to be cowed by Ted’s taunting. They were accusations he had learned to ignore over many years. Instead he kept his voice level. “I did not say that I had made the accusation, although I have my opinions. Bartimus is being more vocal about his opinions, however, and is not in a forgiving mood. Poor little Bell has a broken leg and Daisy could have lost their unborn bairn.” Before Ted could interject Frodo ploughed on, “And Bartimus has spoken with others. You know how talk spreads in a village. They have planned a meeting at the Ivy Bush this evening. In my experience, when you combine hurt with drink, righteous anger can turn ugly.”

Ted was not willing to let go of his bluster, however, his fists clenched so tight that the knuckles were white. “Are you saying that Brockbank lad is going to come, mob handed? They’ll not get in here, I warn you. This mill has stood since before the Shire was founded. I’ll send word to the Shirrifs, too. It's the Brockbanks’ word over ours and my family have been respected in Bywater for many a generation.”

Frodo suspected that any respect earned by earlier generations of the Sandyman family had long since been squandered away by the more recent ones. “Involvement of the Shirrif’s could save Orton’s life, that’s true.” He decided to play a card he rarely used. “You may not be alone in thinking Bilbo a fool but we Baggins’ have been helping folk in Hobbiton for a long time. Despite your opinion, we have also earned a great deal of respect. If it comes down to my word against Orton’s, who do you think will receive the most good will? Are you willing to risk losing the argument, because if you do, your son could end up in the Lockholes for several years.” He paused ominously. “Or worse.”

“Ted, please.” Betony begged, carefully closing the door to Ryle's bedroom as she returned to the kitchen.

“You hold your tongue!” Ted shouted, jabbing a thick finger at her.

To Frodo’s surprise, Betony chose to stand her ground this time, lifting her chin. “No, Ted. He’s my son too. I’ve watched you turning him mean and selfish, and I’ve said nothing.” She sent an apologetic glance Frodo’s way. “And for that I’m as guilty as my husband. I should have stood up long ago.”

Ted advanced, hand raised, and Betony flinched but still held her ground. Frodo was about to intervene when a voice called down from above. “No, dad!”

All turned, to discover a pale Orton standing at the top of the stairs. Ted thundered, “Get back in your room! I’ll see to you later,” but Orton ran down to join his mother instead.

“I’ll not say Mam’s right.” He nodded to Frodo. “But maybe he is. That uncle of his may have been stupid when he was younger, but there’s a lot of folk in Hobbiton beholden to the Baggins family. They’ll come down on his side. You know they will.” Orton scowled at Frodo. “I’ve no liking for the thought of spending the next few years in the Lockholes. I want to hear what he has to say.”

Ted turned about, thrusting out his chin at Frodo. “Well, then. Let’s have it. Aside from gloatin', what have you come for?”

Frodo set aside the fact that Orton had not claimed responsibility for his actions, nor made any apology. It was a beginning and he drew a silent breath of relief. “I came ahead of the others, in order to warn you. I’ll not say I don’t think you deserve to cool your heels in the Lockholes, Orton. You and I both know what happened on that road. But I’ll not see you hanged by a mob. Mistress Betony, you have family in Stock, do you not?”

Betony’s eyes widened, and her hands unclenched. “Yes! My cousins, the Grubs. They work on a farm down that way.”

“Will they take in Orton, do you think?”

Ted was stubborn but he was not stupid, despite the years of alcohol abuse. “They’ll take him in. Family is family, when all else is done.”

Now it was Orton who baulked. “That’s miles away, almost in Buckland. They’re all but wild out there on the borders.” He turned to his mother in appeal but she was looking at Frodo.

“Despite popular opinion in the West Farthing, the folk of the East Farthing and Buckland do not run around in rags, with bones in their hair,” Frodo announced in exasperation. “It was not so long ago that you told me you considered an apprenticeship at Brandy Hall. Your own mother comes from the East Farthing.” He smiled softly at the lady. “And she seems very civilised to me.”

Betony clutched at her son’s arm. “It won’t be so bad, Orton. They even have a small mill there. Maybe you’ll be able to work in it. And you’ll be with family. That will put my mind at rest.”

Ted lost none of his belligerence. “How do we know you won’t send that mob after him?”

Frodo was growing weary of the distrust. “You don’t. You will have to trust me. Of course, the Shire is not such a big place and word may reach Hobbiton one day, but I give you my word that news of Orton’s whereabouts will never come from my lips. With any luck, by the time word does reach Bartimus, his temper will have cooled somewhat. I'll work on that for you... but it will be for his sake, not yours.”

Although Orton scowled at the floor, Betony turned pleading eyes upon her husband. “Ted?”

Ted Sandyman threw up his hands. “Do what you want. I’ll have nought more to do with it. If you're going you’d best go pack, lad. You’ve only a few hours to get a head start on the road.”

Orton appeared torn, looking from father to mother, and Betony stroked his cheek. “Please, Orton. For me.”

Orton sidled past his father, then darted back up the stairs. Betony did not meet her husband's cold gaze, only nodding quick thanks to Frodo before slipping into the pantry, no doubt to pack food for her son's journey. Frodo made for the door. “I’ll go to that meeting and try to hold them off for as long as I can.”

It was several hours later by the time Frodo followed a hubbub of voices to the open door of the Ivy Bush Inn. On such a fine summer evening there would usually be plenty of folk sitting outside with their beer, but today all were packed inside. Frodo felt sweat trickle between his shoulder blades as he stepped into the smoke-filled common room and pushed his way, as politely and yet determinedly as he could, toward the bar.

As he suspected he would be, Bartimus was holding forth to a large and attentive audience. Those who were not close enough to hear were having his words relayed by those at the front, and Frodo had no doubt they were being embellished on the way. He was not looking forward to trying to defuse the situation, and suspected that all he would be able to manage was a holding action, giving Orton Sandyman enough time to escape. His sweat owed more to fear than to the press of bodies crammed into the room.

He had not even time to order a mug of beer before his friend spotted him. “Hey, Frodo! You were there. You tell them I’m not making it up. You saw it all. Tell them what Orton did. Some of these clott heads don't believe me.”

Several folk took exception to his description, but their complaints were lost in the general murmuring. Drawing a deep breath, Frodo arranged his features into a bland pleasantness and attempted to ignore the instruction. “Hello Barti.”

The murmuring ceased and Frodo held back an urge to run, as all eyes turned to him. He managed to take some comfort in seeing his friend obviously fully recovered, but Bartimus’ pallor of the previous day was now replaced by a hectic flush, that he suspected was composed of equal parts anger and beer. 

Bartimus nudged him. “I’ve been telling them all how he deliberately tried to kill us. You were there. Tell them.”

“Kill us? Well, I’m not entirely certain that was his intent.” Ignoring the widening of Bartimus’ eyes, Frodo pressed on. “He was certainly driving far too recklessly on that winding road, but it all happened so fast...”

“What!” Bartimus stepped back from Frodo and Mr Baggins began to wonder if their friendship would survive what he was about to do.

“I’m sorry, Barti. He was driving too fast and he should have stopped to see if we were alright, but I cannot speak for what was going through his mind…and neither can you.” A wave of muttered conversation swept to the back of the room, and Frodo could see several younger hobbits frown, whether in anger or confusion he could not tell.

“Frodo, the Sandyman’s have been against you for years. They’re a bad lot, and everyone here knows it. You, of all people, should be able to guess what was going through his black mind.” Bartimus sounded hurt now, and still Frodo would rather have that, than a lynching.

“That’s just it though. I cannot say what is in another’s mind and neither can you.” Frodo raised his voice to fill the room. “Neither can any of us. Now, if you believe without a doubt that Orton tried to kill us, you should call the shirrifs.”

A chorus of voices shouted out, “We don’t need no shirrifs” and, “Them shirrif's is no bloody good.”

“We can string him up ourselves.”

“Aye. Afore he runs off.”

“Cowards, the whole bunch.”

“Drunk most of the time.”

“Tight as a purse string too.”

“Always over chargin' for their flour.”

“’Tis time we were rid of the lot of ‘em!”

“Aye. String 'em all up!”

Frodo felt, rather than saw, Sam Gamgee push through the growingly belligerent crowd to stand square, at his elbow. Frodo raised his hands for silence, trying not to wince when the action tugged at stitches. “We have laws for a reason. Nobody here has heard Orton’s side. Maybe his pony did bolt. We should not make any rash decisions.” He pointed at the mulish face of Bartimus’ brother, Nevis. “How would you feel if you killed him, and then new evidence came out which showed that it was truly an accident. You can’t give back a life once it’s taken.”

“That’s about as likely as the Water flowing backwards. I’ll take that chance,” Nevis declared, hotly.

“Alright. Let us say that you are right and Orton really did have murder in his heart, do you have the stomach to tie a rope around his neck and pull it tight?” Nevis and one or two others began to blanch, so Frodo pressed on. “Can you honestly say that the sight of him kicking and struggling as the life is squeezed from him, won’t give you nightmares for the rest of your life?”

Frodo noted that Bartimus was also looking a little subdued and one or two of the crowd were even beginning to turn green about the gills. “At the very least, we should ask the shirrif’s to get his side of the story.”

Despite his best efforts a voice shouted from the back, “I still say we string him up!” Soon others joined in and the chorus swelled once more.

Bartimus raised his arms, pleading for quiet, but he was drowned out.

Another voice called, “Come on, lads. Lets find a rope.”

The room emptied, like dark water from a dam, and when Bartimus tried to hold back those nearest him, Frodo shook his head. “Let them go, Barti.”

“What? You were the one defending Orton.”

“I know, but he’s probably long gone by now,” Frodo replied on a sigh.

“Gone?” Bartimus’ eyes widened in an odd mixture of relief and betrayal. “You warned him, didn’t you?”.

“I’m sorry. I had a feeling things were heading this way.”

Now Sam spoke. “I found the shirrif’s like you asked, Mr Frodo, and they’re on their way. They’ve enough of a head start to beat that lot to the mill.” His next words were soft enough only for Frodo’s ears. “Although, if you ask me, Orton don’t deserve to be let off.”

“Thank you, Sam. I knew I could depend on you.” Frodo met Bartimus’ gaze. “I know you’re angry. I was too. But despite any intentions Orton may or may not have had, could you really have lived with yourself if you’d been a party to taking his life? Could you have held little Ashlee in the same arms that had taken part in the killing of another?”

Bartimus looked down at his square hands for a moment, before dropping them to wipe upon his breeches. “When did you get so wise, Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo shrugged. “I seem to have grown up when I wasn't looking. But I truly don't think I’m any wiser than you. If I am honest, I would like to see Orton serve a long time in the lockups. But I was worried that he would not live for long enough to get there. I can understand you being angry. I was angry. But Bilbo once told me that it’s the action taken in anger that most often goes awry. Orton Sandyman has known only ill treatment from his father for all of his life. We should pity him, and I don’t know about you, but compassion sits much better in my mind than murder.”

“Here you go, lads.” Borden Brewer set three beers on the bar. “On the house. I reckon you need these.”

It took several days for matters to settle. By the time the mob from the Ivy Bush reached Bywater Mill it was already less than half it’s original number. Finding a couple of shirrifs posted at the garden gate caused more defections, especially when advised that Orton was not on the premises. The few remaining could not maintain their ire when faced with a tearful Betony Sandyman, begging mercy for her son. Of Ted there was no sign and it was only later discovered that he had been locked in the pantry, to avoid any hotheaded comment from him rousing the mob to violence once more.

By Yule Hobbiton had slid back into complacent drowsing, but not so Frodo. He felt a growing disquiet in his heart and took to drinking, perhaps, a little more wine than was good for him in the evenings. He could not shake the feeling that life was about to change for him, and it was nothing to do with the fact that he had noticed Sam walking out once or twice with Rose Cotton. He had come to rely upon his companionship.

In February of the following year Daisy and Bartimus were delivered of a healthy little lass, who they named Peony. The Gaffer pronounced that he did not approve of such a proud name; that simple wild flower names had always been good enough for the Gamgees lasses. Bartimus took his comments in good part, even as he pointed out that Peony was, in fact, a Brockbank. Daisy only rolled her eyes at the machinations of males.

Frodo doted on this little newcomer, even as a part of him wondered if it would ever be his lot to hold his own bairn one day. Whenever that thought grew too strong he would take up his walking staff, leave a note on the kitchen table for Sam, and head out into the night. Word got around that he was often to be found wondering the fields and woods at dead of night, his face upturned to the stars, and speculation grew on when, rather than if, Frodo Baggins would follow his mad uncle off into the wilds.

On one occasion in March, Daddy Twofoot spotted him from his window, standing in the lane at dawn. He was staring down at something in his hand, that he quickly stuffed in his pocket when Alver tapped him on the shoulder. “Here, lad! There's been a frost this night and ye'll catch yer death of cold standin' here. Get off home with ye. Yer face is fair blue and I reckon, if I tapped it, that nose of yours would drop clean off!” 

It was on the evening of the tenth of April, that Frodo was sitting at his desk in the study. He was startled out of reverie by a light tapping upon his window. Opening the curtains, he gasped in surprise, for there was Gandalf the wizard.

The further 'adventures' of Frodo Baggins are told in his own words in the Red Book of Westmarch, so I shall not go into them here. Suffice it to say that it was almost four years before Aster Tunnelly fulfilled her wish to see the interior of Bag End. It was not to deliver the bairn of Frodo Baggins, however, but that of Sam and Rose Gamgee. Nor was this a Bag End as grand as it had been in the days before Mister Baggins moved to Crickhollow, for much had happened in the Shire by then, some of it very bad. Yet, it was still one of the grandest residences in the Shire, and the wags of the Ivy Bush were heard to comment that it was long past time its walls heard the ring of carefree children's laughter.

END


End file.
